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3  1822  02657  3584 



3  1822026573584 


Cbe  TUflorhs  of  ffrfe&rtcb  miet3scbe 


Translated  by  WILLIAM  A.  HAUSSMANN  and  JOHN  GRAY. 

[Ready  March  20,  1899. 



Translated  by  ALEXANDER  TlLLE. 

[Ready  April  24,  1899. 



Translated  by  THOMAS  COMMON. 

[Ready  May  22,  1899. 

Other  Volumes  to  follow. 

T .     FISHER     UNWIN 

This  sole  authorised  edition  of  the  Collected  Works  of  Friedrich 
Nietzsche  is  issued  under  the  editorship  of  ALEXANDER  TILLE, 
Ph.D.,  Lecturer  at  the  University  of  Glasgow.  It  is  based  on  the 
final  German  edition  (Leipzig:  C.  G.  Nauntann)  prepared  by 
Dr.  Frits  Koegel,  and  is  published  under  the  supervision  of  the 
Nietssche- Archiv  at  Naumburg.  Copyright  in  the  United  States 
by  Macmillan  and  Co.  All  rights  reserved. 













Zarathustra's   Introductory   Speech   on   Beyond-Man  and   the 

Last  Man xxix 

Zarathustra's  Speeches 23 

Of  the  three  Metamorphoses 25 

Of  the  Chairs  of  Virtue 29 

Of  Back- Worlds-Men 33 

Of  the  Despisers  of  Body 38 

Of  Delights  and  Passions 41 

Of  the  Pale  Criminal 44 

Of  Reading  and  Writing 48 

Of  the  Tree  at  the  Hill 51 

Of  the  Preachers  of  Death 56 

Of  War  and  Warriors 59 

Of  the  New  Idol 62 

Of  the  Flies  of  the  Market 66 

Of  Chastity 71 

Of  the  Friend 73 

Of  a  Thousand  and  One  Goals 77 

Of  Love  for  One's  Neighbour 81 

Of  the  Way  of  a  Creator 84 

Of  Little  Women  Old  and  Young 88 

Of  the  Bite  of  the  Adder 92 



Of  Child  and  Marriage 95 

Of  Free  Death 98 

Of  Giving  Virtue 103 


The  Child  with  the  Looking-Glass 113 

Of  the  Blissful  Islands 118 

Of  the  Pitiful 122 

Of  Priests 126 

Of  the  Virtuous 130 

Of  the  Rabble 135 

Of  Tarantulse 139 

Of  the  Famous  Wise  Men 144 

The  Night-Song 149 

The  Dance-Song  .    .    .    . 152 

The  Grave-Song 156 

Of  Self-Overcoming. 161 

Of  the  August 166 

Of  the  Country  of  Culture 170 

Of  Immaculate  Perception 174 

Of  Scholars 179 

Of  Poets 183 

Of  Great  Events.    .    . 188 

The  Fortune-Teller 194 

Of  Salvation 200 

Of  Manly  Prudence 208 

The  Still  Hour 213 


The  Wanderer 221 

Of  the  Vision  and  the  Riddle 226 

Of  Involuntary  Bliss 234 

Before  Sunrise 240 

Of  Virtue  that  Maketh  Smaller 245 

•On  the  Mount  of  Olives 254 



Of  Passing 259 

Of  Apostates 264 

Return  Homeward 271 

Of  the  Three  Evil  Ones 277 

Of  the  Spirit  of  Gravity 285 

Of  Old  and  New  Tables 292 

The  Convalescent  One 321 

Of  Great  Longing 331 

The  Second  Dance-Song 335 

The  Seven  Seals  (or,  the  Song  of  Yea  and  Amen)  ...  341 


The  Honey-Offering 349 

The  Cry  for  Help 355 

Conversation  with  the  Kings 361 

The  Leech 367 

The  Wizard 372 

Off  Duty 382 

The  ugliest  Man 389 

The  Voluntary  Beggar 397 

The  Shadow 404 

At  Noon 409 

Salutation 414 

The  Supper 423 

Of  Higher  Man _. 427 

The  Song  of  Melancholy 442 

Of  Science 449 

Among  Daughters  of  the  Desert 454 

The  Awakening 462 

The  Ass-Festival 467 

The  Drunken  Song 473 

The  Sign 484 



At  various  periods  of  his  life  Nietzsche  designated  diffe- 
rent written  and  unwritten  books  of  his  as  his  "principal 
work."  The  composition  of  some  of  them  never  advanced 
very  far,  and  whilst  in  the  midst  of  his  "  Transvaluation 
of  all  Values,"  the  First  Part  of  which  is  the  "Antichrist," 
he  was  for  ever  disabled  by  an  incurable  disease.  If  one 
has  a  right  to  speak  of  the  principal  work  of  a  mental  life 
that  never  reached  its  goal,  but  was  suddenly  crippled  in 
mid  career,  the  strange  fact  appears,  that  Nietzsche's  master- 
piece is  not  one  of  his  purely  philosophical  books,  but  a 
work,  half  philosophy,  half  fiction  ;  half  an  ethical  sermon, 
half  a  story  ;  a  book  serio-jocular  and  scientifico-fantastical ; 
historico-satirical,  and  realistico-idealistic  ;  a  novel  embracing 
worlds  and  ages  and,  at  the  same  time,  expressing  a  pure 
essence  of  Nietzsche, — his  astounding  prose-poem  Thus 
Spake  Zarathustra. 

Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  is  without  doubt  the  strangest 
product  of  modern  German  literature  ;  and  that  says  a  good 
deal.  If  it  is  to  be  compared  with  other  works  of  World 
Literature,  perhaps  it  is  nearest  the  Three  Baskets  of  Bud- 
dhism, the  Tripitaka.  It  has  the  same  elevated  prose  style  as 
that  sacred  book  of  the  East  in  narrating  a  comparatively 
simple  story,  full  of  parables  and  sayings  of  wisdom ; 


it  has  the  same  solemn,  long  drawn,  out  method  of  relating  ; 
it  has  the  same  fantastic  way  of  looking  at  the  world  and 
life ;  whilst  in  the  idea  of  eternal  recurrence  called  by 
Nietzsche  the  genuine  Zarathustra  thought,  it  rather  ap- 
proaches Brahmanism  than  Buddhism.  In  similar  respects 
the  Gospels  may  be  said  to  have  formed  its  model,  not 
only  in  the  way  of  telling  the  tale,  but  also  hi  the  tone 
and  mode  of  transvaluing  current  ideas  ;  in  the  division 
into  small  chapters  and  prose-verses  ;  in  the  way  of  forming 
sentences ;  and  in  phrases  and  words ;  and  this  although  the 
general  drift  of  thought,  more  especially  the  ethical  teaching, 
goes  in  a  direction  so  different. 

In  English  literature  there  are  two  books  to  which,  by 
its  allegorical  basis  and  wealth  of  moral  wisdom,  Nietzsche's 
work  shows  a  strong  similarity,  viz.,  Piers  the  Ploughman  and 
Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Though  separated  by  centuries, 
these  two  are,  with  comparatively  slight  modifications,  travers- 
ed by  the  same  stream  of  thought,  which  is  well  known  to 
be  the  essence  of  the  grand  system  of  medieval  theology 
and  religion.  The  author  of  Piers  the  Ploughman  was,  in 
numerous  respects,  ahead  of  his  time,  while  the  plain  man 
John  Bunyan  had  scarcely  shared  the  intellectual  advance- 
ment of  the  century  and  a  half  preceding  the  date  of  his 
death.  While  the  Tripitaka  and  the  Gospels  deal  with 
historical  personages,  the  Ploughman  and  the  Pilgrim  are 
not  at  all  historical,  although  resembling  Sakyamuni  Buddha 
and  the  Christ  of  the  Gospels  in  one  respect  :  in  each  case 
the  biography  presents  its  hero  as  a  moral  ideal.  Yet  the 
Ploughman  and  the  Pilgrim  are  true  in  another  sense  :  they 
represent,  after  a  sort,  ideal  aspirations  of  two  ages,  and  show 
us  more  clearly  than  any  learned  treatise  could  do  what 
in  these  ages  was  regarded  as  highest  and  worthiest  of 


human  effort,  by  men  who  had  turned  away  from  life,  and 
sought  for  satisfaction  in  their  own  consciousness. 

In  German  literature,  leaving  out  of  account  the  old 
Gospel-Harmonies,  which  are  not  works  of  original  fiction 
in  the  proper  sense,  the  germs  of  much  that  is  in  Zara- 
thustra  may  be  traced  distinctly  enough.  For  example, 
Riickert's  Wisdom  of  the  Brahman  has  many  suggestions  of 
Nietzsche's  book,  the  third  part  of  which  has  been  strongly 
influenced  by  it.  The  whole  orientalising  and  didactic  poetry 
of  the  nineteenth  century  in  Germany  is  inspired  by  Goethe's 
Western-Eastern-Divan,  and  although  Nietzsche's  work  does 
not  show  that  influence  to  the  same  extent  as  A.  W.  Schlegel, 
Riickert,  Platen,  Bodenstedt  and  Count  Schack,  yet  it  is 
historically  in  more  than  one  respect  connected  with  that 
literary  school. 

The  work  takes  its  title  from  the  mythological  founder 
or  reformer  of  the  Avestic  religion,  Zarathustra,  whose  name, 
in  its  Greek  mutilated  form,  Zoroaster,  is  familiar  to  British 
readers.  As  the  Antichrist  shows,  Nietzsche  had  made 
some  studies  in  oriental  religious  literature,  which  Professor 
Max  Muller's  Sacred  Books  of  the  East  had  brought  within 
the  reach  of  educated  Europe.  Yet  he  either  neglected 
Persian  religious  tradition  or  purposely  in  his  prose-poem 
made  no  use  of  any  knowledge  he  possessed  in  that 
field.  Though  attracted  by  the  solemn  sound  of  the 
name,  which  in  a  high  degree  pleased  his  musical  ear,  he 
declined  to  describe  the  life  of  his  hero  after  the  model  of 
the  Gathas,  which,  according  to  Professor  Darmesteter,  form 
the  oldest  part  of  the  Avesta,  though  belonging,  in  their 
present  form  at  least,  to  no  earlier  date  than  the  first  cent- 
ury of  our  era.  Nietzsche's  Zarathustra  is  neither  of  the 
family  of  Spitama,  nor  is  he  the  husband  of  Frahaoshtra's 


daughter  Huogvi,  nor  yet  the  father-in-law  of  Jamaspa, 
who  had  married  Pourusishta,  Zarathustra's  daughter ;  but 
he  has  been  disentangled  from  the  whole  mythological  circle 
of  which  the  Zarathustra  of  Persian  sacred  tradition  is  part. 
He  is  a  solitary  man,  he  has  no  relations,  not  even  a 
sister.  But,  like  Buddha,  Christ,  and  old  Zarathustra,  he  has 
a  few  disciples.  Of  a  miraculous  birth  of  his  we  learn  no- 
thing in  Nietzsche's  poem.  No  ray  of  the  Divine  Majesty 
descends  into  the  womb  of  Dughdo  ;  no  Frohar  or  genius 
of  Zarathustra  is  enclosed  in  a  Homa  plant,*  in  order  to 
be  absorbed  at  a  sacrifice  by  Paurushaspa,  from  whose  union 
with  Dughdo  old  Zarathustra  was  born  according  to  the 
later  prose  literature  of  the  Avesta ;  no  dangers  are  escaped 
by  him  till  he  is  thirty  years  of  age,  although  Nietzsche's 
Zarathustra  begins  to  teach  people  at  the  same  date,  when 
his  old  model  began  his  conversations  with  Ahura  and  receiv- 
ed from  him  his  revelations  ;  nothing  is  said  about  him 
having  had  only  one  disciple  for  ten  years  and  having  then 
converted  two  sons  of  Hogva,  till  at  last  king  Vishtaspa  him- 
self was  gained  over  to  Zarathustra's  religion  by  his  queen 
Hutaosa.  The  modern  Zarathustra  is  neither  killed  in  the 
battle  nor  has  he  any  sons  who  might  carry  on  his  work 
after  his  death.  He  stands  quite  alone,  his  only  permanent 
companions  being  two  animals,  an  eagle  and  a  serpent.  He 
is  neither  an  historical  nor  a  mythical  person,  but  a  "ghost," 
as  Nietzsche  would  have  called  him,  a  type  existing  nowhere, 
and  yet  the  incorporation  of  wishes  and  aspirations ;  an  ideal 
reflected  in  a  human  image;  a  man  as  man  should  be  in 
Nietzsche's  opinion,  and  as  he  would  have  liked  to  be  himself. 
Under  these  circumstances  it  is  but  natural  that  in 

*  Max  Miiller's  Chips    from    a    German  Workshop.    Vol.  I.    1894. 
p.  474  ff. 


Nietzsche's  Zarathustra  there  should  be  a  strong  personal 
element ;  that  he  should  be  part  of  Nietzsche  himself.  He 
has  his  creator's  love  for  loneliness  and  wild  rocky  mountains ; 
his  love  for  the  sea  and  its  wonders  ;  his  love  for  a  simple 
life  almost  in  poverty  ;  like  him  he  is  an  eager  wanderer  ; 
he  has  his  extreme  individualism  ;  and  a  hundred  great  and 
small  events  in  his  story  are  reflections  of  small  and  great 
occurences  in  Nietzsche's  own  life.  Yet,  as  Nietzsche  has 
not  even  made  an  attempt  in  his  prose-poem  to  represent 
modern  life  and  its  outward  appearances,  all  these  things 
are  veiled  under  allegorical  and  typical  persons,  things  and 
incidents,  so  that,  e.  g.,  Richard  Wagner  plays  the  part  of 
an  evil  wizard,  and  a  modern  specialist  wears  the  mask  of 
the  Conscientious  one  of  the  Spirit,  one  who  knows  only 
the  brain  of  the  leech,  but  that  thoroughly.  And  as 
Nietzsche's  early  writings  failed  to  appeal  to  the  public,  and 
his  picturesque  style  was  later  on  imitated  and  distorted  by 
inferior  writers,  Zarathustra's  speech  is  beaten  by  a  rope- 
dancer's  performance,  and,  when  approaching  the  great  city, 
he  meets  the  Raging  Fool  who  regards  himself  as  the  image 
of  his  teacher  and  is  anxious  to  keep  the  public  of  the 
great  city  for  himself. 

The  scene  of  Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  is  laid,  as  it  were, 
outside  of  time  and  space,  and  certainly  outside  of  countries 
and  nations,  outside  of  this  age,  and  outside  of  the  main 
condition  of  all  that  lives — the  struggle  for  existence. 
Zarathustra  has  not  to  work  for  his  bread,  but  has  got  it 
without  effort.  His  eagle  and  his  serpent  provide  him  with 
all  he  needs,  and  whenever  they  are  not  with  him,  he 
finds  men  who  supply  him.  Thus  there  is  something  of 
the  miraculous  in  his  story,  and  the  personification  of  lifeless 
objects  and  the  gift  of  speech  conferred  upon  them  are  fre- 



quently  made  use  of.  True,  in  his  story  there  appear  cities 
and  mobs,  kings  and  scholars,  poets  and  cripples ;  but  outside 
of  their  realm  there  is  a  province  which  is  Zarathustra's 
own,  where  he  lives  in  his  cave  amid  the  rocks,  and  whence 
he  thrice  goes  to  men  to  teach  them  his  wisdom  pointing 
away  from  all  that  unites  and  separates  men  at  present. 
This  Nowhere  and  Nowhen,  over  which  Nietzsche's  imagi- 
nation is  supreme,  is  a  province  of  boundless  individualism, 
in  which  a  man  of  mark  has  free  play,  unfettered  by  the 
tastes  and  inclinations  of  the  multitude. 

What  far  more  than  style  or  story  separates  Thus  Spake 
Zarathustra  from  the  Tripitaka  and  the  Gospels,  from  Piers 
and  the  Pilgrim,  is  the  creed  contained  in  it.  Thus  Spake 
Zarathustra  is  a  kind  of  summary  of  the  intellectual  life  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  and  it  is  on  this  fact  that  its  prin- 
cipal significance  rests.  It  unites  in  itself  a  number  of 
mental  movements  which,  in  literature  as  well  as  in  various 
sciences,  have  made  themselves  felt  separately  during  the 
last  hundred  years,  without  going  far  beyond  them.  By 
bringing  them  into  contact,  although  not  always  into  un- 
contradictory  relation,  Nietzsche  transfers  them  from  mere 
existence  in  philosophy,  or  scientific  literature  in  general, 
into  the  sphere  of  the  creed  or  Weltanschauung  of  the 
educated  classes,  and  thus  his  book  becomes  capable  of 
influencing  the  views  and  strivings  of  a  whole  age.  His 
immense  rhetorical  power  and  rhapsodic  gift  give  them  a 
stress  they  scarcely  possessed  before.  His  enthusiasm  and 
energy  of  thought  animate  them,  and  his  lyrical  talent  trans- 
forms them  into  "  true  poetry "  for  the  believers  in  them. 
He  makes  the  freest  use  of  traditional  wisdom,  of  proverbs 
and  sayings  of  poets  and  philosophers  that  can  easily  be 
traced  to  their  original  source,  partly  by  repeating  them 


but  slightly  altered,  partly  by  transforming  them  considerably, 
partly  by  turning  them  into  their  contrary,  or  even  into 
more  than  that,  by  giving  them  a  new  point  altogether, 
while  keeping  nine  tenths  of  their  old  form.  And  this  close 
connection  with  the  wisdom  of  the  century  gives  a  person 
who  is  well  read  in  the  German  literature  of  the  present 
century  quite  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  reading  the  book.  It  is 
almost  inconceivable  that  Nietzsche  should  have  gone  through 
the  amount  of  reading  which  would  be  necessary  to  gather 
all  these  things  from  the  places  in  which  individual  minds 
had  placed  them  for  the  first  time.  A  great  number  of 
them  indeed  belong  to  the  treasury  of  quotations  familiar 
to  literary  men.  But  even  in  explaining  the  knowledge  of 
many  of  the  others  a  large  part  will  have  to  be  ascribed 
to  oral  communication  from  persons  who  were  probably  no 
longer  conscious  of  the  fact  that  they  uttered  the  sayings 
of  others. 

However  peculiar  a  book  Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  be,  it 
stands  neither  in  its  form  nor  in  its  tendencies  quite  isolated 
in  modern  German  literature.  A  similar  aim  is  pursued  by 
the  whole  Weltanschauungsroman,  which  since  the  early 
seventies  of  this  century  has  partly  taken  an  historical  turn, 
and  has  by  preference  dealt  with  subjects  from  periods  of 
history  which  show  the  like  struggle  about  religious  belief 
as  the  present  time.  Books  like  Felix  Dahn's  prose-poem 
Odhin's  Trost  (1880)  are  very  much  like  Zarathustra  in  style, 
form  and  general  drift  of  thought,  only  that  much  more 
stress  in  laid  on  the  story  and  their  purpose  is  not  mainly 
philosophico-didactic.  The  philosophy  of  the  Gods  and 
warriors  appearing  in  Dahn's  novel,  differs  little  from  Zara- 
thustra's  wisdom  except  as  regards  the  extreme  individualism 
of  the  latter.  The  lake-dwelling  story  in  Auch  Einer  by 

ii  * 


Friedrich  Theodor  Vischer  (1879)  shows  the  same  element  of 
travesty  as  prevails  in  Zarathustra,  and  the  religious  exami- 
nation of  the  lake-dwellers'  children  is  based  on  exactly  the 
same  feelings  and  the  same  criticism  as  the  Ass-Festival  in 
Nietzsche's  book.  The  tendency  of  modern  German  lyrics 
to  prefer  free  rythms  to  rhymed  verses  based  on  a  regular 
change  of  accented  and  unaccented  syllables,  spreads  far 
beyond  Zarathustra,  in  which  it  is  mixed  with  some  elements 
of  ancient  Greek  hymnology.  Most  of  these  books,  especially 
those  by  Dahn,  show  in  some  respects  a  very  advanced  state 
of  thought,  whilst  in  others  they  delight  in  submitting  to  old 
fancies  and  antiquated  prejudices.  In  the  same  way  Zara- 
thustra mixes  with  the  highest  knowledge  of  our  time  bold 
and  unreasonable  speculations  like  the  idea  of  eternal  recur- 
rence, according  to  which  all  that  is  has  been  infinite  times 
before  in  exactly  the  same  way,  and  will  recur  infinitely  in 
future,  and  Zarathustra  boasts  to  be  the  first  to  teach  this 
grand  illusion.  Indeed  at  another  place  he  carries  his  indi- 
vidualism so  far  as  to  counsel  people  to  kill  themselves  at 
the  right  time,  in  order  not  to  become  superfluous  on  earth. 
Among  the  numerous  intellectual  currents  which  gather 
in  the  channel  of  Thtis  Spake  Zarathustra  in  order  to  be 
conveyed  to  the  ocean  of  general  cultured,  and  subsequently 
popular,  opinion,  three  take  a  prominent  place,  the  indi- 
vidualistic, the  free  religious,  and  the  evolutional  utilitarian 
movements,  the  springs  of  all  of  which  go  back  to  last  cent- 
ury. These  currents  are  neither  the  only  ones  that  flow 
through  Nietzsche's  book,  nor  do  they  appear  clearly  sepa- 
rated from  other  minor  tendencies.  The  first  and  the  third 
are  in  more  than  one  respect  in  opposite  directions  to  each 
other.  Yet  they  may  be  said  to  express  the  leading  mo- 
tives of  the  book. 


The  greatest  German  historian  of  to-day  distinguishes 
three  stages  in  the  evolution  of  mental  life,  symbolical,  con- 
ventional and  individual  mental  life.  In  Western  Europe 
the  period  of  individual  mental  life  begins  with  the  time  of 
the  Reformation,  the  doctrine  of  private  judgment  in  matters 
of  belief  being  its  clearest  expression.  It  is  only  since  then 
that  the  theory  was  developed  that  opinions  are  free.  This 
field  was  in  the  course  of  time  somewhat  enlarged,  so  as 
to  cover  other  things  besides  opinion.  In  political  thought 
the  school  of  Anarchism  is  an  outcome  of  this  idea,  and 
Humboldt,  Dunoyer,  Stirner,  Bakounine  and  Auberon  Spencer 
are  probably  the  best  known  representatives  of  these  tend- 
encies. Even  Herbert  Spencer  shows  traces  so  marked  of 
this  doctrine,  that  Huxley  could  name  his  theory  Administra- 
tive Nihilism.  The  same  tendencies  which  in  political  spe- 
culation take  the  form  of  theoretical  anarchism,  prevail,  to 
a  smaller  extent,  in  modern  ethics,  in  modern  philosophy 
generally,  and,  perhaps  even  in  larger  measure,  in  modern 
religious  concepts,  in  which  everybody  claims  the  right  to 
build  up  for  himself  a  Universe  of  his  own.  By  Huxley 
this  liberty  has  been  sanctified  by  the  name  of  Agnosticism. 

Nietzsche's  mind  is  as  unpolitical  as  possible.  The 
modern  State  is  for  him  nothing  but  a  new  idol.  He  does 
not  believe  in  nations  and  countries,  and  is  indifferent  about 
any  special  form  of  Government,  except  that  he  hates  from 
the  bottom  of  his  soul  democracy  as  the  depth  of  decad- 
ence. In  his  eyes  the  teachers  of  equality  are  tarantulse, 
and  Huxley's  essay  On  the  Natural  Inequality  of  Men  would 
have  delighted  him.  But  he  pays  no  special  attention  to 
political  and  social  questions.  The  competition  of  nations 
for  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  neglected  by  him  entirely, 
and  his  few  speculations  about  a  further  evolution  of  larger 


groups  of  individuals  suffer  seriously  from  his  apathy  to- 
wards everything  called  social.  He  deals  with  men  almost 
exclusively  as  individuals,  and  has  beautiful  words  on  man's 
moral  self-education,  on  friendship  and  on  love,  but  none 
for  labour  and  its  reward.  For  him  the  struggle  for  existence 
is  not  the  source  of  all  power  and  efficiency.  His  ideal  is 
the  lonely  philosopher,  the  creator,  as  he  calls  him ;  and  in 
what  he  demands  from  man  in  this  respect  he  has  scarcely 
been  surpassed. 

When,  about  the  middle  of  last  century,  Lessing  and 
Reimarus  had  considerably  shaken  the  position  of  theoretical 
church  doctrines,  it  did  not  take  long,  till,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  French  encyclopaedists,  attempts  were  made 
to  replace  them  by  altogether  different  concepts.  Wie- 
land's  philosophical  novels  and  part  of  Goethe's  prose  writ- 
ings led  the  way.  Then  in  the  nineteenth  century  a  whole 
literature  bearing  on  the  subject  arose.  Ludwig  Feuerbach, 
Karl  Gutzkow,  Heinrich  Heine,  David  Strauss,  F.  Th.  Vischer, 
Eduard  von  Hartmann  and  Felix  Dahn  are  its  principal 
representatives.  And  Ludwig  Feuerbach  has  given  this  free 
religious  movement  a  motto  by  the  saying  :  "  God  was  my  first, 
Reason  my  second,  and  Man  my  third  and  last  thought. 
Man  alone  is  and  must  be  our  God.  No  salvation  outside  of 
Man."  The  same  idea  which  made  James  Cotter  Morrison, 
writing  on  the  decrease  of  religious  influence  and  the  increase 
of  morality,  title  his  book  :  Service  of  Man,  in  opposition  to 
the  Service  of  God  preached  by  the  churches  all  over  the 
world,  is  at  the  root  of  that  German  movement,  the  most  pro- 
minent representative  of  which  in  modern  Germany  is  Friedrich 
Nietzsche.  His  Zarathustra  deals  with  the  latest  phases  of 
the  belief  in  God.  In  many  respects  he  adopts  the  same 
attitude  as  Heinrich  Heine,  but  his  criticism  of  Christianity 


is  most  akin  to  that  of  perhaps  the  freest  spirit  of  modern 
Germany,  Karl  Gutzkow,  whose  footsteps  he  follows. 

The  connection  between  natural  science  and  literature 
has  always,  in  Germany  as  elsewhere,  been  very  loose. 
True,  Albrecht  von  Haller  made  some  attempts  to  bring  them 
into  contact,  and  Goethe  tried  to  attain  the  same  end  in 
his  Wahlverwandtschaften  and  in  other  writings  :  up  to  the 
present  time  the  world  has  no  literature  which  has  taken 
into  itself  even  the  most  important  knowledge  which  natural 
science  regards  as  definitively  fixed ;  and  the  literary  historian 
who  would  take  up  as  his  subject  a  history  of  the  conver- 
sations on  Darwinism  occurring  in  modern  novels,  would  pro- 
duce a  most  astounding  book  that  could  not  fail  to  make 
any  scientist  laugh  in  his  most  melancholy  hours.  Yet  there 
are  certain  parallel  developments  in  literature  and  science 
which  by  no  means  lack  significance ;  and  the  history  of 
modern  evolutional  utilitarianism  in  Ethics  is  perhaps  the 
most  astonishing  among  them.  If  it  was  the  last  goal  of 
medieval  ethical  speculation  to  find  the  way  to  heaven  by  ful- 
filling the  commandments  of  God,  another  goal  was,  after  the 
sixteenth  century,  set  up — the  goal  of  so-called  eudsemonistic 
utilitarianism.  It  was  to  be  reached  by  furtherance  of  the 
happiness  of  one's  fellow-men.  But  before  it  was,  in  this 
century,  called  by  Bentham  the  greatest  possible  happiness 
of  the  greatest  possible  number,  or  the  maximisation  of 
happiness,  it  had,  in  German  philosophy  and  literature  been 
superseded  by  another  goal,  which  is  usually  called  the  goal 
of  Perfectionism.  Under  the  influence  of  Greek  antiquity 
it  had  become  the  aim  of  the  educated  man  to  work  out 
his  own  perfection  in  every  respect.  Leibniz  is  the  most 
important  representative  of  that  school,  which,  in  the  course 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  borrowed  a  whole  phraseology 


from  the  world  of  art.  It  was  Goethe  who,  after  the  model 
of  the  French  phrases  former  le  coeur  and  former  I' esprit,  coined 
the  new  word  Bildung  which  later  on  became  identical 
partly  with  culture  and  partly  with  education.  He  is  pro- 
bably the  most  pronounced  perfectionist  who  has  ever  lived. 
Early  in  his  youth  he  called  his  Faust  a  Beyond-Man,  an 
Uebermensch.  His  aim  it  was  to  make  his  own  life  a  great 
work  of  art.  And  yet  in  Wilhelm  Meister's  Wanderjahren  he 
stands  at  the  threshold  of  a  new  phase  in  the  evolution  of 
individual  perfectionism,  of  the  phase  of  racial  perfectionism. 
This  phase  was  opened  by  Prince  Piickler-Muskau  who  was 
the  first  to  lay  before  his  contemporaries  the  idea  of  leading 
the  human  race  to  a  higher  perfection  by  means  of  artificial 
selection,  after  the  model  of  the  breeder  of  animals  and  the 
father  of  Frederic  the  Great,  who  is  said  to  have  married 
by  preference  his  tallest  grenadiers  to  tall  ladies  in  order  to 
beget  a  still  taller  off-spring.  Prince  Piickler-Muskau,  how- 
ever, was  scarcely  taken  seriously,  and  even  when  Wilhelm 
Jordan  took  up  the  idea  in  his  Demiurgos  of  1854  and 
Radenhausen  in  his  book  his,  Man  and  World,  scarcely 
anybody  thought  of  its  far-reaching  importance.  It  was 
only  after  Darwin  had  in  his  Origin  of  Species  of  1859 
placed  the  whole  idea  of  evolution  on  a  scientific  basis, 
that  the  same  poet  Wilhelm  Jordan  could  celebrate  in 
his  epos  Die  Nibelunge  the  higher  bodily  and  intellectual 
development  of  the  human  race  as  the  great  goal  of  human- 
ity, and  the  centre  of  ethical  obligations.  He  connected  it 
with  patriarchal  matrimonial  institutions,  and  made  it  the 
point  of  view  from  which  his  heroes  select  wives  for  their  sons. 
Although  clearly  pronounced  in  at  least  twenty  passages  of 
that  epic,  it  failed  to  attract  public  sympathy  for  a  con- 
siderable time,  and  only  after  Nietzsche,  (who  follows  Jordan 


closely  in  all  details)  had  taken  up  the  idea  and  made  it 
almost  the  leading  motive  of  his  Zarathustra,  did  it  impress 
itself  upon  large  circles  of  the  educated  youth.  And  it  is 
Nietzsche's  undeniable  merit  to  have  led  this  new  moral 
ideal  to  a  complete  victory,  so  that  from  his  writings  it 
rapidly  spread  over  German  lyrics  and  epic  poetry. 

Nietzsche  himself  tells  us  that  the  fundamental  idea  of 
his  Zarathustra  originated  in  August  1881  in  the  Engadine. 
The  composition  of  the  work  extended  over  about  two  years. 
The  First  Part  was  written  in  January  and  February  1883 
near  Genoa  ;  the  Second  Part  in  Sils  Maria  in  June  and 
July  of  the  same  year;  the  Third  Part  in  the  following  winter  at 
Nice,  and  the  Fourth  Part  from  November  1884  till  February 
1885  at  Mentone.  The  Fourth  Part,  which  was  then  not 
intended  to  be  the  last,  but  rather  an  Interlude  of  the 
whole  poem,  was  never  published  by  Nietzsche,  but  merely 
printed  for  private  circulation  among  a  few  friends.  It  was 
not  publicly  issued  till  after  the  outbreak  of  Nietzsche's  illness, 
in  March  1892,  so  that  the  whole  of  Zarathustra,  contain- 
ing all  four  parts,  appeared  no  earlier  than  July  1892,  since 
which  time  is  has  gone  through  several  editions. 

The  aim  of  the  present  translation  has  been  to  give  the 
meaning  of  the  German  text  as  exactly  as  could  be  done. 
Where  several  interpretations  of  words  or  sentences  were 
possible,  as  is  rather  frequently  the  case,  that  interpretation 
was  chosen  which  seemed  to  agree  best  with  the  context, 
although  the  decision  of  this  question  is  in  many  cases  quite 
arbitrary.  For  the  few  facts  regarding  the  composition  of 
Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  the  Editor  is  obliged  to  Dr.  Fritz 
Koegel's  Nachbericht  to  Vol.  vi  of  the  German  edition. 





Having  attained  the  age  of  thirty,  Zarathustra  left 
his  home  and  the  lake  of  his  home  and  went  into  the 
mountains.  There  he  rejoiced  in  his  spirit  and  his 
loneliness  and,  for  ten  years,  did  not  grow  weary  of 
it.  But  at  last  his  heart  turned, — one  morning  he  got 
up  with  the  dawn,  stepped  into  the  presence  of  the 
Sun,  and  thus  spake  unto  him  : 

"  Thou  great  star  !  What  would  be  thy  happiness, 
were  it  not  for  those  for  whom  thou  shinest. 

For  ten  years  thou  hast  come  up  here  to  my  cave. 
Thou  wouldst  have  got  sick  of  thy  light  and  thy  jour- 
ney but  for  me,  mine  eagle,  and  my  serpent. 

But  we  waited  for  thee  every  morning  and,  receiv- 
ing from  thee  thine  abundance,  blessed  thee  for  it. 

Lo  !  I  am  weary  of  my  wisdom,  like  the  bee  that 
hath  collected  too  much  honey ;  I  need  hands  reaching 
out  for  it. 

I  would  fain  grant  and  distribute  until  the  wise 
among  men  could  once  more  enjoy  their  folly,  and 
the  poor  once  more  their  riches. 



For  that  end  I  must  descend  to  the  depth :  as 
thou  dost  at  even,  when,  sinking  behind  the  sea, 
thou  givest  light  to  the  lower  regions,  thou  resplen- 
dent star  ! 

I  must,  like  thee,  go  down,  as  men  say — men  to 
whom  I  would  descend. 

Then  bless  me,  thou  impassive  eye  that  canst  look 
without  envy  even  upon  over-much  happiness  ! 

Bless  the  cup  which  is  about  to  overflow  so  that 
the  water  golden-flowing  out  of  it  may  carry  every- 
where the  reflection  of  thy  rapture. 

Lo  !  This  cup  is  about  to  empty  itself  again,  and 
Zarathustra  will  once  more  become  a  man." 

Thus  Zarathustra's  going  down  began. 

Zarathustra  stepped  down  the  mountains  alone  and 
met  with  nobody.  But  when  he  reached  the  woods, 
suddenly  there  stood  in  front  of  him  an  old  man  who 
had  left  his  hermitage  to  seek  roots  in  the  forest. 
And  thus  the  old  man  spake  unto  Zarathustra  : 

"  No  stranger  to  me  is  the  wanderer  :  many  years 
ago  he  passed  here.  Zarathustra  was  his  name  ;  but 
he  hath  changed. 

Then  thou  carriedst  thine  ashes  to  the  mountains  : 
wilt  thou  to-day  carry  thy  fire  to  the  valleys  ?  Dost 
thou  not  fear  the  incendiary's  doom  ? 


Yea,  I  know  Zarathustra  again.  Pure  is  his  eye, 
nor  doth  any  loathsomeness  lurk  about  his  mouth. 
Doth  he  not  skip  along  like  a  dancer  ? 

Changed  is  Zarathustra,  a  child  Zarathustra  became, 
awake  is  Zarathustra  :  what  art  thou  going  to  do  among 
those  who  sleep  ? 

As  in  the  sea  thou  livedst  in  loneliness,  and  wert 
borne  by  the  sea.  Alas  !  art  thou  now  going  to  walk 
on  the  land  ?  Alas,  art  thou  going  to  drag  thy  body 

Zarathustra  answered  :  "  I  love  men." 

"  Why,"  said  the  saint,  "  did  I  go  to  the  forest  and 
desert  ?  Was  it  not  because  I  loved  men  greatly 
over-much  ? 

Now  I  love  God :  men  I  love  not.  Man  is  a 
thing  far  too  imperfect  for  me.  Love  of  men  would 
kUl  me." 

Zarathustra  answered  :  "  What  did  I  say  of  love  ! 
I  am  bringing  gifts  to  men." 

"Do  not  give  them  anything,"  said  the  saint. 
"  Rather  take  something  from  them  and  bear  their 
burden  along  with  them — that  will  serve  them  best : 
if  it  only  serve  thyself  well ! 

And  if  thou  art  going  to  give  them  aught,  give 
them  no  more  than  an  alms,  and  let  them  beg  even 
for  that" 

"No,"  said  Zarathustra,  "I  do  not  give  alms.  I 
am  not  poor  enough  for  that." 



The  saint  laughed  at  Zarathustra  and  spake  thus  : 
"  Then  see  to  it  that  they  accept  thy  treasures  !  They 
are  suspicious  of  hermits  and  do  not  believe  that  we 
are  coming  in  order  to  give. 

In  their  ears  our  steps  sound  too  lonely  through 
the  streets.  And  just  when  during  the  night  in  their 
beds  they  hear  a  man  going  long  before  sunrise  they 
sometimes  ask  :  whither  goeth  that  thief  ? 

Go  not  to  men,  but  tarry  in  the  forest !  Rather 
go  to  the  animals  !  Why  wilt  thou  not  be  like  me, 
a  bear  among  bears,  a  bird  among  birds  ? " 

"  And  what  doth  the  saint  in  the  forest  ? "  asked 

The  saint  answered :  "  I  make  songs  and  sing 
them,  and  making  songs  I  laugh,  cry  and  hum  :  I 
praise  God  thus. 

With  singing,  crying,  laughing,  and  humming  I 
praise  that  God  who  is  my  God.  But  what  gift 
bringest  thou  to  us  ?  " 

Having  heard  these  words  Zarathustra  bowed    to 
the  saint  and  said  :  "  What  could  I  give  to  you  !    But 
let   me    off  quickly,    lest    I   take    aught  from  you."- 
And  thus  they  parted  from   each   other,   the  old  man 
and  the  man  like  two  boys  laughing. 

When  Zarathustra  was  alone,  however,  he  spake 
thus  unto  his  heart :  "  Can  it  actually  be  possible  !  This 
old  saint  in  his  forest  hath  not  yet  heard  aught  of 
God  being  dead  !  ' ' 



Arriving  at  the  next  town  which  lieth  nigh  the 
forests,  Zarathustra  found  there  many  folk  gathered 
in  the  market ;  for  a  performance  had  been  promised 
by  a  rope-dancer.  And  Zarathustra  thus  spake  unto 
the  folk  : 

"  /  teach  you  beyond-man.  Man  is  a  something  that 
shall  be  surpassed.  What  have  ye  done  to  surpass 
him  ? 

All  beings  hitherto  have  created  something  beyond 
themselves  :  and  are  ye  going  to  be  the  ebb  of  this 
great  tide  and  rather  revert  to  the  animal  than  sur- 
pass man  ? 

What  with  man  is  the  ape  ?  A  joke  or  a  sore 
shame.  Man  shall  be  the  same  for  beyond-man,  a 
joke  or  a  sore  shame. 

Ye  have  made  your  way  from  worm  to  man,  and 
much  within  you  is  still  worm.  Once  ye  were  apes, 
even  now  man  is  ape  in  a  higher  degree  than  any  ape. 

He  who  is  the  wisest  among  you  is  but  a  discord 
and  hybrid  of  plant  and  ghost.  But  do  I  order  you 
to  become  ghosts  or  plants  ? 

Behold,  I  teach  you  beyond-man  ! 

Beyond-man  is  the  significance  of  earth.  Your  will 
shall  say :  beyond-man  shall  be  the  significance  of  earth. 

I  conjure  you,  my  brethren,  remain  faithful  to 
earth  and  do  not  believe  those  who  speak  unto  you 


of  superterrestrial  hopes  !  Poisoners  they  are  whether 
they  know  it  or  not. 

Despisers  of  life  they  are,  decaying  and  them- 
selves poisoned,  of  whom  earth  is  weary :  begone  with 
them ! 

Once  the  offence  against  God  was  the  greatest 
offence,  but  God  died,  so  that  these  offenders  died 
also.  Now  the  most  terrible  of  things  is  to  offend 
earth  and  rate  the  intestines  of  the  inscrutable  one 
higher  than  the  significance  of  earth  ! 

Once  soul  looked  contemptuously  upon  body  ;  that 
contempt  then  being  the  highest  ideal : — soul  wished 
the  body  meagre,  hideous,  starved.  Thus  soul  thought 
it  could  escape  body  and  earth. 

Oh  !  that  soul  was  itself  meagre,  hideous,  starved  : 
cruelty  was  the  lust  of  that  soul ! 

But  ye  also,  my  brethren,  speak :  what  telleth 
your  body  of  your  soul  ?  Is  your  soul  not  poverty 
and  dirt  and  a  miserable  ease  ? 

Verily,  a  muddy  stream  is  man.  One  must  be  a 
sea  to  be  able  to  receive  a  muddy  stream  without 
becoming  unclean. 

Behold,  I  teach  you  beyond-man  :  he  is  that  sea, 
in  him  your  great  contempt  can  sink. 

What  is  the  greatest  thing  ye  can  experience  ? 
That  is  the  hour  of  great  contempt.  The  hour  in 
which  not  only  your  happiness,  but  your  reason  and 
virtue  as  well  turn  loathsome. 


The  hour  in  which  ye  say  :  '  What  is  my  happiness 
worth  !  It  is  poverty  and  dirt  and  a  miserable  ease. 
But  my  happiness  should  itself  justify  existence  ! ' 

The  hour  in  which  ye  say  :  '  What  is  my  reason 
worth  !  Longeth  it  for  knowledge  as  a  lion  for  its 
food  ?  It  is  poverty  and  dirt  and  a  miserable  ease.' 

The  hour  in  which  ye  say  :  '  What  is  my  virtue 
worth  !  It  hath  not  yet  lashed  me  into  rage.  How 
tired  I  am  of  my  good  and  mine  evil !  All  that  is 
poverty  and  dirt  and  a  miserable  ease  ! ' 

The  hour  in  which  ye  say  :  '  What  is  my  justice 
worth  !  I  do  not  see  that  I  am  flame  and  fuel.  But 
the  just  one  is  flame  and  fuel ! ' 

The  hour  in  which  ye  say :  '  What  is  my  pity 
worth  !  Is  pity  not  the  cross  to  which  he  is  being 
nailed  who  loveth  men  ?  But  my  pity  is  no  cruci- 
fixion. ' 

Spake  ye  ever  like  that  ?  Cried  ye  ever  like  that  ? 
Alas  !  would  that  I  had  heard  you  cry  like  that ! 

Not  your  sin,  your  moderation  crieth  unto  heaven, 
your  miserliness  in  sin  even  crieth  unto  heaven  ! 

Where  is  the  lightning  to  lick  you  with  its  tongue  ? 
Where  is  that  insanity  with  which  ye  ought  to  be 
inoculated  ? 

Behold !  I  teach  you  beyond-man :  he  is  that  light- 
ning, he  is  that  insanity  ! " 

Zarathustra  having  spoken  thus,  one  of  the  folk 
shouted  :  "  We  have  heard  enough  of  the  rope-dancer  ; 


let  us  see  him  now  ! "  And  all  the  folk  laughed  at 
Zarathustra.  The  rope-dancer,  however,  who  thought 
he  was  meant  by  that  word,  started  with  his  perform- 


But  Zarathustra  looked  at  the  folk  and  wondered. 
Then  he  spake  thus  : 

"Man  is  a  rope  connecting  animal  and  beyond- 
man, — a  rope  over  a  precipice. 

Dangerous  over,  dangerous  on-the-way,  dangerous 
looking  backward,  dangerous  shivering  and  making  a 

What  is  great  in  man  is  that  he  is  a  bridge  and 
not  a  goal :  what  can  be  loved  in  man  is  that  he  is 
a  transition  and  a  destruction. 

I  love  those  who  do  not  know  how  to  live  unless 
in  perishing,  for  they  are  those  going  beyond. 

I  love  the  great  despisers  because  they  are  the 
great  adorers,  they  are  arrows  of  longing  for  the  other 

I  love  those  who  do  not  seek  behind  the  stars  for 
a  reason  to  perish  and  be  sacrificed,  but  who  sacrifice 
themselves  to  earth  in  order  that  earth  may  someday 
become  beyond-man's. 

I  love  him  who  liveth  to  perceive,  and  who  is 
longing  for  perception  in  order  that  some  day  beyond- 
man  may  live.  And  thus  he  willeth  his  own  destruction. 


I  love  him  who  worketh  and  inventeth  to  build  a 
house  for  beyond-man  and  make  ready  for  him  earth, 
animal,  and  plant ;  for  thus  he  willeth  his  own  de- 

I  love  him  who  loveth  his  virtue  :  for  virtue  is  will 
to  destruction  and  an  arrow  of  longing. 

I  love  him  who  keepeth  no  drop  of  spirit  for  him- 
self, but  willeth  to  be  entirely  the  spirit, of  his  virtue  : 
thus  as  a  spirit  crosseth  he  the  bridge. 

I  love  him  who  maketh  his  virtue  his  inclination 
and  his  fate  :  thus  for  the  sake  of  his  virtue  he  willeth 
to  live  longer  and  live  no  more. 

I  love  him  who  yearneth  not  after  too  many  virtues. 
One  virtue  is  more  than  two  because  it  is  so  much 
the  more  a  knot  on  which  to  hang  fate. 

I  love  him  whose  soul  wasteth  itself,  who  neither  '  "*^fl-  ^-^ 
wanteth  thanks   nor   returneth   aught:  for  he   always^ 
giveth  and  seeketh  nothing  to  keep  of  himself. 

I  love  him  who  is  ashamed  when  the  dice  are 
thrown  in  his  favour  and  who  then  asketh  :  am  I  a 
cheat  in  playing  ? — for  he  desireth  to  perish. 

I  love  him  who  streweth  golden  words  before  his 
deeds  and  performeth  still  more  than  his  promise  :  for 
he  seeketh  his  own  destruction. 

I  love  him  who  justifieth  the  future  ones  and  saveth 
the  past  ones  :  for  he  seeketh  to  perish  on  account  of 
the  present  ones. 

I  love  him  who  chastiseth  his  God  because  he  loveth 


his  God  :  for  he  must  perish  on  account  of  the  wrath 
of  his  God. 

I  love  him  whose  soul  is  deep  even  when  wounded 
and  who  can  perish  even  on  account  of  a  small  affair : 
for  he  gladly  crosseth  the  bridge. 

I  love  him  whose  soul  is  over-full  so  that  he  for- 
getteth  himself  and  all  things  are  within  him  :  thus  all 
things  become  his  destruction. 

I  love  him  who  is  of  a  free  spirit  and  of  a  free 
heart :  thus  his  head  is  merely  the  intestine  of  his 
heart,  but  his  heart  driveth  him  to  destruction. 

I  love  all  those  who  are  like  heavy  drops  falling 
one  by  one  from  the  dark  cloud  lowering  over  men  : 
they  announce  the  coming  of  the  lightning  and  perish 
in  the  announcing. 

Behold,  I  am  an  announcer  of  the  lightning  and 
a  heavy  drop  from  the  clouds  :  that  lightning's  name 
is  beyond-man." 


Having  spoken  these  words  Zarathustra  again  looked 
at  the  folk  and  was  silent.  "  There  they  are  standing," 
he  said  unto  his  heart,  "  there  they  are  laughing :  they 
do  not  understand  me,  I  am  not  the  mouth  for  these  ears. 

Must  they  needs  have  their  ears  beaten  to  pieces 
before  they  will  learn  to  hear  with  their  eyes  ?  Must 
one  rattle  like  a  kettledrum  and  a  fast-day  preacher  ? 
Or  do  they  only  believe  stammerers  ? 


They  have  got  something  to  be  proud  of.  How 
name  they  what  maketh  them  proud  ?  Education  they 
name  it ;  it  distinguishes  them  from  the  goat-herds. 

Wherefore  they  like  not  to  hear  the  word  contempt 
used  of  themselves.  Thus  I  am  going  to  speak  unto 
their  pride. 

Thus  I  am  going  to  speak  unto  them  of  the  most 
contemptible  :  that  is  of  the  last  man." 

And  thus  Zarathustra  spake  unto  the  folk  : 

"It  is  time  for  man  to  mark  out  his  goal.  It  is 
time  for  man  to  plant  the  germ  of  his  highest  hope. 

His  soil  is  still  rich  enough  for  that  purpose.  But 
one  day  that  soil  will  be  impoverished  and  tame,  no 
high  tree  being  any  longer  able  to  grow  from  it. 

Alas  !  the  time  cometh  when  man  will  no  longer 
throw  the  arrow  of  his  longing  beyond  man  and  the 
string  of  his  bow  will  have  lost  the  cunning  to 
whizz  ! 

I  tell  you  :  one  must  have  chaos,  within  to  enable 
one  to  give  birth  to  a  dancing  star.  I  tell  you  :  ye 
have  still  got  chaos  within. 

Alas  !  the  time  cometh  when  man  will  no  longer 
give  birth  to  any  star  !  Alas  !  There  cometh  the  time 
of  the  most  contemptible  man  who  can  no  longer 
despise  himself. 

Behold  !    I  show  you  the  last  man. 

'What  is  love?  What  is  creation?  What  is  longing? 
What  is  star  ? ' — Thus  the  last  man  asketh,  blinking. 


Then  earth  will  have  become  small,  and  on  it  the 
last  man  will  be  hopping  who  maketh  everything  small. 
His  kind  is  indestructible  like  the  ground-flea ;  the 
last  man  liveth  longest. 

'  We  have  invented  happiness,' — the  last  men  say, 

They  have  left  the  regions  where  it  was  hard  to 
live,  for  one  must  have  warmth.  One  still  loveth  his 
neighbour  and  rubbeth  one's  self  on  him  ;  for  warmth 
one  must  have. 

To  turn  sick  and  to  have  suspicion  are  regarded 
as  sinful.  They  walk  wearily.  A  fool  he  who  still 
stumbleth  over  stones  or  men. 

A  little  poison  now  and  then  :  that  causeth  pleasant 
dreams.  And  much  poison  at  last  for  an  easy  death. 

They  still  work,  for  work  is  an  entertainment. 
But  they  are  careful,  lest  the  entertainment  exhaust 

They  no  longer  grow  poor  and  rich ;  it  is  too 
troublesome  to  do  either.  No  herdsman  and  one  flock! 
Each  willeth  the  same,  each  is  equal  :  he  who  feeleth 
otherwise  voluntarily  goeth  into  a  lunatic  asylum. 

'Once  all  the  world  was  lunatic' — the  most  refined 
say,  blinking. 

One  is  clever  and  knoweth  whatever  has  happened, 
so  that  there  is  no  end  of  mocking.  They  still  quarrel, 
but  they  are  soon  reconciled — otherwise  the  stomach 
would  turn. 


One  hath  one's  little  lust  for  the  day  and  one's  little 
lust  for  the  night :  but  one  honoureth  health. 

'We  have  invented  happiness,'  the  last  men  say, 

And  here  ended  Zarathustra's  first  speech  which  is 
also  called  "  the  introductory  speech "  :  for  in  that 
moment  the  shouting  and  merriment  of  the  folk  inter- 
rupted him.  "  Give  us  that  last  man,  o  Zarathustra  "- 
thus  they  bawled — "  make  us  that  last  man  !  We  gladly 
renounce  beyond-man  ! "  And  all  the  folk  cheered 
smacking  with  the  tongue.  But  Zarathustra  sadly  said 
unto  his  heart : 

"  They  understand  me  not :  I  am  not  the  mouth 
for  these  ears. 

I  suppose  I  lived  too  long  in  the  mountains,  listen  - 
ing  too  much  to  brooks  and  trees  :  now  for  them  my 
speech  is  like  that  of  goat-herds. 

Unmoved  is  my  soul  and  bright  like  the  mountains 
in  the  morning.  But  they  deem  me  cold  and  a  mocker 
with  terrible  jokes. 

And  now  they  look  at  me  and  laugh  :  and  while 
they  laugh  they  hate  me.  There  is  ice  in  their  laughter." 

Then  a  thing  happened  which  silenced  every  mouth 
and  fixed  every  eye.  For  in  the  meantime  the  rope- 
dancer  had  begun  his  performance  :  he  had  stepped 


out  of  the  little  door  and  walked  along  the  rope  that 
was  stretched  between  two  towers  so  that  it  hung 
over  the  market  and  the  folk.  When  he  was  just 
midway  the  little  door  opened  again  and  a  gay-coloured 
fellow  like  a  clown  jumped  out  and  walked  with  quick 
steps  after  the  first.  "  Go  on,  lame-leg,"  his  terrible 
voice  shouted,  "  go  on,  slow-step,  smuggler,  pale-face ! 
That  I  may  not  tickle  thee  with  my  heel  !  What  dost 
thou  here  between  towers  ?  Thy  place  is  in  the 
tower.  Thou  shouldst  be  imprisoned.  Thou  barrest  the 
free  course  to  one  who  is  better  than  thou  art  ! " — 
And  with  each  word  the  clown  drew  nearer  and 
nearer :  but  when  he  was  just  one  step  behind,  the 
terrible  thing  happened  which  silenced  every  mouth 
and  fixed  every  eye  :  uttering  a  cry  like  a  devil,  he 
jumped  over  him  who  was  in  his  way.  The  latter 
seeing  his  rival  conquer,  lost  his  head  and  the  rope  ; 
throwing  down  his  stick  he  shot  down  quicker  than 
it,  like  a  whirl  of  arms  and  legs.  The  market  and  the 
folk  were  as  the  sea  when  the  storm  rusheth  over  it : 
everybody  fled  tumbling  one  over  the  other,  and  most 
there  where  the  body  was  to  strike  the  ground. 

Zarathustra  remained  standing  there,  and  the  body 
fell  down  just  beside  him,  badly  disfigured  and  broken, 
but  not  dead.  After  a  while,  the  consciousness  of  the 
fallen  one  coming  back,  he  saw  Zarathustra  kneel 
beside  him.  "  What  art  thou  doing  there  ?  "  he  asked 
at  last,  "  I  knew  it  long  ago  that  the  devil  would  play 


me  a  trick.  Now  he  draggeth  me  unto  hell :  art  thou 
going  to  hinder  him  ?  " 

"  On  my  honour,  friend,"  Zarathustra  answered, 
"  what  thou  speakest  of  doth  not  exist :  there  is  no 
devil  nor  hell.  Thy  soul  will  be  dead  even  sooner 
than  thy  body  :  henceforward  fear  nothing." 

The  man  looked  up  suspiciously  :  "  If  thou  speakest 
truth,"  he  said,  "losing  my  life  I  lose  nothing.  Then 
I  am  not  much  more  than  an  animal  which  by  means 
of  blows  and  tit-bits  hath  been  taught  to  dance." 

"  Not  so,"  Zarathustra  said ;  "  thou  hast  made  danger 
thy  calling,  there  is  nothing  contemptible  in  that.  Now 
thou  diest  of  thy  calling  :  therefore  shall  I  bury  thee 
with  mine  own  hands." 

Zarathustra  having  said  thus  the  dying  one  made 
no  answer,  but  moved  his  hand  as  though  he  sought 
Zarathustra's  to  thank  him. 


Meanwhile  the  evening  fell,  and  the  market  was 
hidden  in  darkness  :  the  folk  dispersed,  for  even  curi- 
osity and  terror  grow  tired.  Zarathustra,  however,  sat 
beside  the  dead  man  on  the  ground,  absorbed  in 
thought,  forgetting  the  time.  But  at  last  it  was  night, 
and  a  cold  wind  blew  over  the  lonely  one.  Then 
Zarathustra  rising  said  unto  his  heart : 

"  Verily,  a  fine  fishing  was  Zarathustra's  to-day  !  It 
was  not  a  man  he  caught,  but  a  corpse. 


Haunted  is  human  life  and  yet  meaningless :  a 
buffoon  may  be  fatal  to  it. 

I  am  going  to  teach  men  their  life's  significance  : 
which  is  beyond-man,  the  lightning  from  the  dark 
cloud  of  man. 

But  still  I  am  remote  from  them,  my  sense  speaketh 
not  to  their  sense.  For  men  I  am  still  a  cross  between 
a  fool  and  a  corpse. 

Dark  is  the  night,  dark  are  Zarathustra's  ways. 
Come  on,  thou  cold  and  stiff  companion  !  I  carry  thee 
to  the  place  where  I  shall  bury  thee  with  my  hands." 

Having  said  thus  unto  his  heart  Zarathustra  took 
the  corpse  on  his  back  and  started  on  his  way.  When 
he  had  not  yet  gone  a  hundred  steps,  somebody  stealing 
close  to  him  whispered  into  his  ear — and  lo  !  the 
speaker  was  the  buffoon  from  the  tower.  "Depart  from 
this  town,  O  Zarathustra,"  he  said  ;  "  too  many  hate 
thee  here.  There  hate  thee  the  good  and  just  ones, 
and  they  call  thee  their  enemy  and  despiser ;  there 
hate  thee  the  faithful  of  the  right  belief,  and  they  call 
thee  a  danger  for  the  many.  It  was  thy  good  fortune 
to  be  laughed  at :  and,  verily,  thou  spakest  like  a 
buffoon.  It  was  thy  good  fortune  to  associate  with  the 
dead  dog  ;  by  thus  humiliating  thyself  thou  hast  saved 
thyself  to-day.  But  depart  from  this  town — or  to-morrow 


I  jump  over  thee,  a  living  over  a  dead  one."  Having 
so  said,  the  man  disappeared,  whilst  Zarathustra  went 
on  through  the  dark  lanes. 

At  the  gate  of  the  town  he  met  the  grave-diggers. 
They  flared  their  torch  in  his  face,  and  recognising  Zara- 
thustra, mocked  him.  "  Zarathustra  is  carrying  off  the  dead 
dog  :  well  that  Zarathustra  hath  turned  grave-digger  ! 
For  our  hands  are  too  clean  for  this  roast.  Perhaps 
Zarathustra  means  to  steal  from  the  devil  his  bite  ? 
Go  on  !  And  much  luck  to  the  dinner  !  We  are  afraid 
the  devil  will  be  a  better  thief  than  Zarathustra  ! — he 
stealeth  both  of  them,  he  eateth  both  ! "  And  putting 
their  heads  together  they  laughed. 

Zarathustra  saying  no  word  in  answer  went  his 
way.  Journeying  two  hours  through  forests  and  swamps, 
he  heard  the  hungry  howling  of  the  wolves  and  felt 
hungry  himself.  So  he  stopped  at  a  lonely  house  in 
which  a  light  was  burning. 

"  Hunger  surpriseth  me,"  said  Zarathustra,  "  like  a 
robber.  Amid  forests  and  swamps  in  the  depth  of  the 
night  my  hunger  surpriseth  me. 

My  hunger  hath  odd  fancies.  Frequently  it  appear- 
eth  only  after  dinner,  and  to-day  it  did  not  appear 
all  day  :  where  was  it  ?  " 

And  then  Zarathustra  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
house.  Very  soon  an  old  man  came  carrying  a  candle 
and  asking :  "  Who  cometh  to  me  and  mine  evil 


"A  living  and  a  dead  one"  replied  Zarathustra. 
"  Give  me  to  eat  and  to  drink,  I  forgot  it  in  the  day- 
time. He  who  feedeth  the  hungry  refresheth  his  own 
soul ;  thus  saith  wisdom." 

The  old  man  having  gone  off  returned  immediately, 
offering  Zarathustra  bread  and  wine.  "This  is  a  bad 
quarter  for  hungry  people,"  said  he  ;  "  that  is  why  I 
am  staying  here.  Animal  and  man  come  to  me,  the 
hermit.  But  ask  also  thy  companion  to  eat  and 
drink  ;  he  is  much  more  tired  than  thou  art."  Zara- 
thustra answered  :  "  Dead  is  my  companion  ;  I  shall 
scarcely  persuade  him  to  do  so."  "  That  is  no  reason 
with  me,"  said  the  old  man  crossly  ;  "  he  who  knocketh 
at  my  house  must  take  whatever  I  offer  him.  Eat 
and  farewell ! " 

Then  Zarathustra  walked  two  more  hours  and 
trusted  the  road  and  the  light  of  the  stars ;  for  he 
was  accustomed  to  walk  by  night  and  liked  to  look 
into  the  face  of  all  things  asleep.  But  when  the 
morning  dawned,  Zarathustra  found  himself  in  a  deep 
forest  with  no  road  visible.  Then  he  laid  the  dead 
one  in  a  hollow  tree  at  his  own  head — for  he  wished 
to  defend  him  from  the  wolves — and  he  laid  himself 
down  on  the  ground  and  moss.  And  at  once  he  fell 
asleep,  with  his  body  tired,  but  with  his  soul  unmoved. 



Long  slept  Zarathustra,  not  only  the  dawn  passing- 
over  his  face,  but  the  morning  also.  At  last,  however, 
his  eye  opened :  astonished  Zarathustra  looked  into 
the  forest  and  the  stillness,  astonished  he  looked  into 
himself.  Then  quickly  rising,  like  a  mariner  who  sud- 
denly seeth  land,  he  exulted  :  for  he  saw  a  new  truth. 
And  thus  he  then  spake  unto  his  heart : 

"  A  light  hath  arisen  for  me  :  companions  I  need, 
and  living  ones, — not  dead  companions  or  corpses 
which  I  carry  with  me  wherever  I  go. 

But  living  companions  I  need  who  follow  me  be- 
cause they  wish  to  follow  themselves — and  to  the 
place  whither  I  wish  to  go. 

A  light  hath  arisen  for  me  :  Zarathustra  is  not  to 
speak  unto  the  folk,  but  unto  companions  !  Zarathustra 
is  not  to  be  the  herdsman  and  dog  of  a  herd  ! 

To  entice  many  from  the  herd — that  is  why  I  have 
come.  Folk  and  herd  will  be  angry  with  me  :  a  robber 
Zarathustra  wisheth  to  be  called  by  herdsmen. 

Herdsmen  I  call  them,  but  they  call  themselves 
the  good  and  just.  Herdsmen  I  call  them,  but  they 
call  themselves  the  faithful  of  the  right  belief. 

Lo,  the  good  and  just !  Whom  do  they  hate 
most  ?  Him  who  breaketh  to  pieces  their  tables  of 
values, — the  breaker,  the  criminal : — but  he  is  the 



Lo,  the  faithful  of  all  beliefs  !  Whom  do  they  hate 
most  ?  Him  who  breaketh  to  pieces  their  tables  of 
values, — the  breaker,  the  criminal : — but  he  is  the 

Companions  the  creator  seeketh  and  not  corpses, 
neither  herds  nor  faithful  men.  Such  as  will  be  creators 
with  him  the  creator  seeketh,  those  who  write  new 
values  on  new  tables. 

Companions  the  creator  seeketh,  and  such  as  will 
reap  with  him  :  for  with  him  everything  is  ripe  for 
harvest.  But  he  lacketh  the  hundred  sickles  so  that 
he  teareth  up  the  ears  and  is  angry. 

Companions  the  creator  seeketh,  and  such  as  know 
how  to  whet  their  sickles.  Destroyers  they  will  be 
called  and  despisers  of  good  and  evil.  But  they  are 
those  who  reap  and  cease  from  labour. 

Such  as  will  be  creators  with  him  Zarathustra 
seeketh,  such  as  reap  with  him  and  cease  from  labour 
with  him  :  what  hath  he  to  do  with  herds  and  herds- 
men and  corpses  ! 

And  thou,  my  first  companion,  farewell  !  Well  I 
buried  thee  in  thy  hollow  tree,  well  I  hid  thee  from 
the  wolves. 

But  I  part  from  thee,  the  time  is  past.  Between 
dawn  and  dawn  a  new  truth  hath  revealed  itself  to  me. 

I  am  not  to  be  a  herdsman  nor  yet  a  grave-digger. 
I  am  not  even  to  speak  unto  the  folk  again.  I  have 
spoken  unto  a  dead  one  for  the  last  time. 


Those  who  are  creators,  who  reap,  who  cease  from 
labour  I  shall  associate  with.  I  shall  show  them  the 
rainbow  and  all  the  degrees  of  beyond-man. 

I  shall  sing  my  song  unto  the  hermits  and  those 
who  are  hermits  in  pairs.  And  the  heart  of  him  who 
hath  ears  for  unheard  things  I  shall  make  heavy  with 
my  happiness. 

Towards  my  goal  I  struggle,  mine  own  way  I  go  ; 
I  shall  overleap  those  who  hesitate  and  delay.  Let  my 
way  be  their  destruction  ! " 


Having  said  thus  unto  his  heart,  when  the  sun  was 
at  noon  Zarathustra  suddenly  looked  upwards  wonder- 
ing— for  above  himself  he  heard  the  sharp  cry  of  a 
bird.  And  lo !  an  eagle  swept  through  the  air  in 
wide  circles,  a  serpent  hanging  from  it  not  like  a  prey, 
but  like  a  friend  :  coiling  round  its  neck. 

"  They  are  mine  animals "  said  Zarathustra  and  re- 
joiced heartily. 

"  The  proudest  animal  under  the  sun,  and  the  wisest 
animal  under  the  sun  have  set  out  to  reconnoitre. 

They  wished  to  learn  whether  Zarathustra  still 
liveth.  Verily,  do  I  still  live  ? 

More  dangerous  than  among  animals  I  found  it 
among  men.  Dangerous  ways  are  taken  by  Zarathustra. 
Let  mine  animals  lead  me  ! " 


Having  so  said  Zarathustra  thought  of  the  words 
of  the  saint  in  the  forest  and  sighing  he  thus  spake 
unto  his  heart : 

"  Would  I  were  wiser  !  Would  I  were  wise  from 
the  root  like  my  serpent ! 

But  I  ask  impossibilities.  I  ask  my  pride  to  be 
always  the  companion  of  my  wisdom. 

And  when  once  my  wisdom  leaveth  me  :  alas  !  it 
liketh  to  fly  away  !  Would  that  my  pride  would  then 
fly  with  my  folly  ! " 

Thus  began  Zarathustra's  down-going. 


"  Three  metamorphoses  of  the  spirit  I  declare  unto 
you:  how  the  spirit  becometh  a  camel,  the  camel  a 
lion,  and  the  lion  at  last  a  child. 

There  are  many  things  heavy  for  the  spirit,  the 
strong  spirit  which  is  able  to  bear  the  load  and  in 
which  reverence  dwelleth:  its  strength  longeth  for  the 
heavy  and  heaviest. 

What  is  heavy?  asketh  the  spirit  which  is  able  to 
bear  the  load,  and  kneeling  down  like  a  camel  wisheth 
to  be  well-laden. 

What  is  the  heaviest,  ye  heroes?  asketh  the  spirit 
which  is  able  to  bear  the  load,  that  I  may  take  it  on 
me  and  rejoice  in  my  strength. 

Is  it  not :  to  humiliate  one's  self  in  order  to  give 
pain  to  one's  haughtiness?  To  show  forth  one's  folly 
in  order  to  mock  at  one's  wisdom? 

Or  is  it:  to  part  from  our  cause  when  it  is  cele- 
brating its  victory  ?  To  ascend  high  mountains  in  order 
to  tempt  the  tempter? 


Or  is  it :  to  live  on  the  acorns  and  grass  of  know- 
ledge and  to  starve  one's  soul  for  the  sake  of  truth  ? 

Or  is  it:  to  be  ill  and  send  away  the  consolers  and 
make  friends  of  deaf  people  who  never  hear  thy  wishes. 

Or  is  it :  to  step  into  dirty  water,  if  it  be  the  water 
of  truth,  and  not  drive  away  the  cold  frogs  and  hot 
toads  ? 

Or  is  it:  to  love  those  who  despise  us  and  to 
shake  hands  with  the  ghost  when  it  is  going  to 
terrify  us? 

All  these  heaviest  things  are  taken  upon  itself  by 
the  spirit  that  is  able  to  bear  the  load ;  like  the  camel 
which  when  it  is  laden  hasteth  to  the  desert,  the  spirit 
hasteth  to  its  own  desert. 

In  the  loneliest  desert  however  cometh  the  second 
metamorphosis :  there  the  spirit  becometh  a  lion.  Free- 
dom it  will  take  as  its  prey  and  be  lord  in  its  own 

There  it  seeketh  its  last  lord:  to  him  and  its 
last  God  it  seeketh  to  be  a  foe,  with  the  great  dra- 
gon it  seeketh  to  contend  for  victory. 

What  is  the  great  dragon  which  the  spirit  is  no 
longer  willing  to  call  lord  and  God  ?  '  Thou  shalt ' 
is  the  name  of  the  great  dragon.  But  the  lion's  spirit 
saith:  'I  will.' 

'  Thou  shalt '  besets  his  way  glittering  with  gold, 
a  pangolin,  on  each  scale  there  shineth  golden  '  Thou 


Values  a  thousand  years  old  are  shining  on  these 
scales,  and  thus  saith  the  most  powerful  of  all  dra- 
gons:  The  value  of  all  things— is  shining  on  me. 

All  value  hath  been  created,  and  all  value  created 
— that  is  I.  Verily,  there  shall  be  no  more  'I  will.' 
Thus  saith  the  dragon. 

My  brethren,  wherefore  is  the  lion  in  the  spirit 
necessary  ?  Wherefore  doth  the  beast  of  burden  that 
renounceth  and  is  reverent  not  suffice? 

To  create  new  values — that  even  the  lion  is  not 
able  to  do  :  but  to  create  for  itself  freedom  for  new 
creating,  for  that  the  lion's  power  is  enough. 

To  create  for  one's  self  freedom  and  a  holy  Nay  even  to- 
wards duty :  therefore,  my  brethren,  the  lion  is  required. 

To  take  for  one's  self  the  right  to  new  values — 
that  is  the  most  terrible  taking  for  a  spirit  able  to 
bear  the  load  and  reverent.  Indeed,  for  it  a  preying 
it  is  and  the  work  of  a  beast  of  prey. 

As  its  holiest  it  once  loved  '  Thou  shalt : '  now  it 
must  find  illusion  and  arbitrariness  even  in  the  holiest, 
in  order  to  prey  for  itself  freedom  from  its  love  :  the 
lion  is  required  for  that  preying. 

But  tell  me,  my  brethren,  what  can  the  child  do 
which  not  even  the  lion  could?  Why  must  the  prey- 
ing lion  become  a  child  also? 

The  child  is  innocence  and  oblivion,  a  new  starting, 
a  play,  a  wheel  rolling  by  itself,  a  prime  motor,  a  holy 

28  THUS    SPAKE    21ARATHUSTRA,    I 

Ay,  for  the  play  of  creating,  my  brethren,  a  holy 
asserting  is  wanted:  it  is  its  own  will  that  the  spirit 
now  willeth,  it  is  its  own  world  that  the  recluse 
winneth  for  himself. 

Three  metamorphoses  of  the  spirit  I  declare  unto 
you:  how  the  spirit  becometh  a  camel,  the  camel  a 
lion,  and  the  lion  at  last  a  child." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  when  he  stayed  in  the 
town  which  is  called :  The  Cow  of  Many  Colours. 


Some  one  praised  a  wise  man  to  Zarathustra  be- 
cause he  was  said  to  speak  well  of  sleep  and  virtue 
and  therefore  to  be  very  much  honoured  and  re- 
warded. All  young  men  were  said  to  sit  before  his  chair. 
Zarathustra  went  to  him  and  sat  among  all  the 
young  men  before  his  chair.  And  thus  spake  the  wise 

"  Honour  and  shame  to  sleep !  That  is  the  first 
thing.  And  to  go  out  of  the  way  of  all  who  sleep 
badly  and  are  awake  in  the  night ! 

Even  the  thief  is  ashamed  to  disturb  sleep:  he  al- 
ways stealeth  gently  through  the  night.  But  shame- 
less is  the  watchman  of  the  night,  shamelessly  he 
weareth  his  horn. 

Sleeping  is  no  small  art :  for  that  purpose  one  need- 
eth  firstly  to  keep  awake  all  day. 

Ten  times  a  day  thou  must  conquer  thyself:  that 
giveth  a  wholesome  weariness  and  is  poppy  for  the 


Ten  times  thou  must  reconcile  thyself  with  thyself: 
for  resignation  is  bitterness  and  badly  sleepeth  he  who 
is  not  reconciled. 

Ten  truths  a  day  thou  must  find:  else  thou  seekest 
for  truth  even  in  the  night,  thy  soul  having  remained 

Ten  times  a  day  thou  must  laugh  and  be  gay: 
else  thy  stomach  disturbeth  thee  in  the  night,  that 
father  of  affliction. 

Few  know  that,  but  in  order  to  sleep  well  one 
must  have  all  virtues.  Shall  I  bear  false  witness? 
Shall  I  commit  adultery? 

Shall  I  covet  my  neighbour's  maid  servant?  All 
that  would  ill  accord  with  good  sleep. 

And  even  if  one  hath  all  the  virtues,  one  must 
know  one  more  thing,  to  send  unto  sleep  the  virtues 
at  the  proper  time. 

In  order  that  they  may  not  quarrel,  the  pretty  little 
women !  And  about  thee,  thou  unhappy  one ! 

Peace  with  God  and  thy  neighbour:  good  sleep 
will  have  it  so.  And  peace  even  with  the  neighbour's 
devil!  Else  it  will  haunt  thee  in  the  night 

Honour  and  obedience  to  the  magistrates,  and  even 
to  crooked  magistrates!  good  sleep  will  have  it  so.  Is 
it  my  fault  that  power  liketh  to  walk  on  crooked  legs  ? 

He  shall  be  called  by  me  the  best  herdsman  who 
leadeth  his  sheep  unto  the  greenest  meadow:  that 
accordeth  well  with  good  sleep. 

OF    THE    CHAIRS    OF  VIRTUE  3! 

I  do  not  want  many  honours  nor  great  treasures: 
that  innameth  the  milt.  But  one  sleepeth  badly  with- 
out a  good  name  and  a  small  treasure. 

A  small  society  is  more  welcome  unto  me  than  an 
evil  one :  it  must  however  come  and  go  at  the  proper 
time.  That  accordeth  well  with  good  sleep. 

I  am  also  well  pleased  with  the  poor  in  spirit :  they 
promote  sleep.  Blessed  are  they,  especially  if  one  al- 
ways yieldeth  to  them. 

Thus  the  day  passeth  for  the  virtuous.  When 
night  cometh  I  take  good  care  not  to  call  sleep!  It 
liketh  not  to  be  called:  sleep  which  is  the  master  of 
virtues ! 

But  I  think  of  what  I  did  and  thought  during  the 
day.  Ruminating  I  ask  myselF,  patient  as  a  cow :  what 
were  thy  ten  resignations? 

And  what  were  thy  ten  reconciliations,  and  the 
ten  truths  and  the  ten  laughters  with  which  my  heart 
pleased  itself? 

Whilst  I  am  meditating  thus  and  rocked  by  forty 
thoughts,  suddenly  sleep  seizeth  me :  the  uncalled  one, 
the  master  of  virtues. 

Sleep  knocking  at  mine  eye,  it  getteth  heavy.  Sleep 
touching  my  mouth,  it  remaineth  open. 

Verily,  on  soft  soles  it  approacheth  me,  the  dearest 
of  thieves,  stealing  my  thoughts:  stupid  I  stand  like 
this  chair. 

But  I  do  not  stand  long  then :  there  I  lie —  " 


Having  heard  the  wise  man  speak  thus,  Zarathustra 
laughed  in  his  heart :  for  a  light  had  arisen  for  him 
in  the  meantime.  And  thus  he  spake  unto  his  heart: 

"A  fool  I  consider  that  wise  man  there  with  his 
forty  thoughts ;  but  I  believe  that  he  well  knoweth 
how  to  sleep. 

Happy  he  who  liveth  near  this  wise  man !  Such 
a  sleep  is  infectious,  even  through  a  thick  wall  it  is 

A  charm  liveth  even  in  his  chair.  Nor  did  the 
youths  sit  in  vain  before  the  preacher  of  virtue. 

His  wisdom  is:  to  wake  in  order  to  sleep  well. 
And  verily,  if  life  had  no  significance,  and  had  I  to 
choose  nonsense,  this  nonsense  would  seem  to  be  the 
worthiest  to  be  chosen  for  me  as  well. 

Now  I  understand  clearly,  what  once  was  sought 
for  above  all  when  teachers  of  virtue  were  sought. 
Good  sleep  was  sought  for  and  poppy-head-like  vir- 
tues with  it! 

For  all  those  belauded  wise  men  of  chairs,  wisdom 
was  sleep  without  dreams :  they  knowing  no  better 
significance  of  life. 

Even  to-day  there  are  a  few  extant  who  are 
like  this  preacher  of  virtues  and  not  always  so  honest. 
But  their  time  is  past.  And  not  much  longer  they 
stand:  there  they  lie  already. 

Blessed  are  the  sleepy :  for  they  shall  soon  drop  off." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Once  Zarathustra  threw  his  spell  beyond  man, 
like  all  back-worlds-men.  Then  the  world  seemed  to 
me  the  work  of  a  suffering  and  tortured  God. 

A  dream  then  the  world  appeared  to  me,  and  a 
God's  fiction  ;  coloured  smoke  before  the  eyes  of  a 
godlike  discontented  one. 

Good  and  evil,  and  pleasure  and  pain,  and  I  and 
thou  —coloured  smoke  it  appeared  to  me  before  creative 
eyes.  When  the  creator  wished  to  look  away  from 
himself — he  created  the  world. 

For  the  sufferer  it  is  an  intoxicating  joy  to  look 
away  from  his  suffering  and  lose  himself.  An  intoxicat- 
ing joy  and  a  losing  of  one's  self  the  world  once 
appeared  to  me. 

This  world,  the  ever  imperfect,  an  image  and  an 
imperfect  image  of  an  eternal  contradiction — an  in- 
toxicating joy  to  its  imperfect  creator  : — thus  this  world 
once  appeared  to  me. 



Thus  I  threw  my  spell  beyond  man,  like  all  back- 
worlds-men.  Truly  beyond  man  ? 

Alas !  brethren,  that  God  whom  I  created  was  man's 
work  and  man's  madness,  like  all  Gods  ! 

Man  he  was,  and  but  a  poor  piece  of  man  and  the  I. 
From  mine  own  ashes  and  flame  it  came  unto  me,  that 
ghost,  yea  verily !  It  did  not  come  unto  me  from  beyond ! 

What  happened,  brethren  ?  I  overcame  myself, 
the  sufferer,  and  carrying  mine  own  ashes  unto  the 
mountains  invented  for  myself  a  brighter  flame.  And 
lo  !  the  ghost  departed  from  me  ! 

Now  to  me,  the  convalescent,  it  would  be  suffering 
and  pain  to  believe  in  such  ghosts  :  suffering  it  were 
now  for  me  and  humiliation.  Thus  I  speak  unto  the 
back- worlds-men. 

Sorrow  and  weakness  created  all  back-worlds  ;  and 
that  short  madness  of  happiness  which  only  the  most 
sorrowful  experience. 

Weariness  which,  with  one  jump,  with  a  jump  of 
death,  wanteth  to  reach  the  last,  a  poor  ignorant 
weariness  which  is  not  even  willing  any  more  to  will: 
it  created  all  Gods  and  back-worlds. 

Believe  me,  my  brethren  !  It  was  the  body  which 
despaired  of  the  body — with  the  fingers  of  a  befooled 
spirit  it  groped  at  the  last  walls. 

Believe  me,  my  brethren  !  It  was  the  body  which 
despaired  of  earth,  it  heard  the  womb  of  existence 
speak  unto  it. 


And  there  it  yearned  to  get  through  the  last  walls 
with  its  head,  and  not  with  its  head  only — beyond,  to 
'the  other  world.' 

But  '  the  other  world '  is  carefully  hidden  from 
man,  that  brutish,  inhuman  world  which  is  a  heavenly 
nothing ;  and  the  womb  of  existence  speaketh  not 
unto  man  unless  as  man. 

Verily,  difficult  to  be  proved  is  all  existence  and  diffi- 
cult to  be  induced  to  speak.  Tell  me,  brethren,  hath  not 
the  oddest  of  all  things  been  proved  even  best  of  all  ? 

Ay,  that  I  and  the  contradiction  and  confusion  of 
the  I  speak  most  honestly  of  all  existence,  that  creat- 
ing, willing,  valuing  I  which  is  the  measure  and  the 
value  of  things. 

And  that  most  honest  existence,  that  I  which 
speaketh  of  the  body  and  still  willeth  the  body  even 
when  composing  poetry  and  imagining  and  fluttering 
with  broken  wings. 

Even  more  honestly  it  learneth  to  speak,  that  I : 
and  the  more  it  learneth,  the  more  words  and  honours 
for  body  and  earth  it  findeth. 

A  new  pride  I  have  been  taught  by  mine  I ;  and 
this  I  teach  men  :  no  more  to  put  their  head  into  the 
sand  'of  heavenly  things,  but  to  carry  it  freely,  an 
earth-head  that  giveth  significance  unto  earth  ! 

A  new  will  I  teach  men  :  to  will  that  way  which 
man  hath  gone  blindly  and  to  call  it  good  and  no 
longer  to  shirk  aside  from  it  like  the  sickly  and  dying. 



The  sickly  and  dying  folk  despised  body  and  earth 
and  invented  the  heavenly  and  the  redeeming  blood- 
drops  :  but  even  those  sweet  and  gloomy  poisons  were 
borrowed  from  body  and  earth  ! 

They  sought  to  escape  from  their  misery,  and  the 
stars  were  too  remote  for  them.  Then  they  sighed  : 
Would  that  there  were  heavenly  ways  by  which  to 
steal  into  another  existence  and  happiness  ! — they  in- 
vented for  themselves  their  byways  and  little  bloody 
drinks  ! 

And  they  professed  to  be  beyond  the  reach  of 
their  body  and  this  earth,  the  ungrateful  ones.  But 
to  whom  did  they  owe  the  convulsion  and  delight  of 
their  removal  ?  To  their  body  and  this  earth. 

Kind  unto  the  sick  is  Zarathustra.  Verily,  he  is  not 
angry  at  their  ways  of  consolation  and  ingratitude. 
Would  they  were  convalescent  and  conquering  and 
creating  a  higher  body  for  themselves  ! 

Neither  is  Zarathustra  angry  with  the  convalescent 
one,  if  he  looketh  fondly  back  upon  his  illusion  and 
at  midnight  stealeth  round  the  grave  of  his  God  :  but 
even  his  tears  remain  for  me  a  disease  and  a  sick  body. 

Many  sick  folk  were  always  among  the  makers  of 
poetry  and  the  god-passionate  ;  furiously  they  hate  him 
who  perceiveth  and  that  youngest  of  virtues  that  is 
called  honesty. 

Backward  they  ever  gaze  into  the  dark  times : 
then,  of  course,  illusion  and  belief  were  something  else. 


Intoxication  of  reason  was  likeness  unto  God,  and 
doubt  was  sin. 

Only  too  well  I  know  those  god-like  ones  :  they 
wish  to  be  believed  in,  and  that  doubt  should  be  sin. 
Only  too  well  I  know,  besides,  what  they  themselves 
believe  in  most. 

Verily,  not  in  back-worlds  and  redeeming  blood- 
drops  :  but  even  they  believe  most  in  body,  and  their 
own  body  for  them  is  the  thing  in  itself. 

But  a  sickly  thing  it  is  for  them  :  and  fain  they 
would  leap  out  of  their  skin.  Therefore  they  listen 
unto  the  preachers  of  death  and  themselves  preach 

Rather  listen,  my  brethren,  unto  the  voice  of  the 
body  that  hath  been  restored  unto  health  :  it  is  a  more 
honest  and  a  purer  voice. 

More  honestly  and  purely  the  healthy  body  speaketh, 
the  perfect  and  rectangular :  it  speaketh  of  the  signi- 
ficance of  earth." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 

"  It  is  unto  the  despisers  of  body  that  I  shall 
say  my  word.  It  is  not  to  re-learn  and  re-teach  what 
I  wish  them  to  do  ;  I  wish  them  to  say  farewell  unto 
their  own  body — and  be  dumb. 

'Body  I  am  and  soul' — thus  the  child  speaketh. 
And  why  should  one  not  speak  like  the  children  ? 

But  he  who  is  awake  and  knoweth  saith  :  '  Body  I 
am  throughout,  and  nothing  besides  ;  and  soul  is 
merely  a  word  for  a  something  in  body.' 

Body  is  one  great  reason,  a  plurality  with  one 
sense,  a  war  and  a  peace,  a  flock  and  a  herdsman. 

Also  thy  little  reason,  my  brother,  which  thou 
callest  '  spirit ' —  it  is  a  tool  of  thy  body,  a  little  tool 
and  toy  of  thy  great  reason. 

'  I '  thou  sayest  and  art  proud  of  that  word.  But 
the  greater  thing  is — which  thou  wilt  not  believe— thy 
body  and  its  great  reason.  It  doth  not  say  '  I,'  but  it 
doth  'I.' 

What  the  sense  feeleth,  what  the  spirit  perceiveth 
hath  never  its  end  in  itself.  But  sense  and  spirit 


would  fain  persuade  thee,  that  they  were  the  end  of 
all  things  :  so  vain  they  are. 

Tools  and  toys  are  sense  and  spirit :  behind  them 
there  lieth  the  self.  The  self  also  seeketh  with  the 
eyes  of  the  senses,  it  also  listeneth  with  the  ears  of 
the  spirit. 

The  self  ever  listeneth  and  seeketh  :  it  compareth, 
subdueth,  conquereth,  destroyeth.  It  ruleth  and  is  the 
ruler  of  the  '  I '  as  well. 

Behind  thy  thoughts  and  feelings,  my  brother, 
standeth  a  mighty  lord,  an  unknown  wise  man — whose 
name  is  self.  In  thy  body  he  dwelleth,  thy  body  he  is. 

There  is  more  reason  in  thy  body  than  in  thy  best 
wisdom.  And  who  can  know  why  thy  body  needeth 
thy  best  wisdom  ? 

Thy  self  laugheth  at  thine  I  and  its  prancings : 
'  What  are  these  boundings  and  flights  of  thought  ? '  it 
saith  unto  itself.  A  round-about  way  to  my  purpose. 
I  am  the  leading-string  of  the  I  and  the  suggester  of 
its  concepts.' 

The  self  saith  unto  the  I :  '  Feel  pain  here  ! '  And 
there  it  suffereth  and  meditateth  how  to  get  rid  of 
suffering — and  that  is  why  it  shall  think. 

The  self  saith  unto  the  I :  '  Feel  lust  here  ! '  There 
it  rejoiceth  and  meditateth  how  to  rejoice  often — and 
that  is  why  it  shall  meditate. 

I  am  going  to  say  a  word  unto  the  despisers  of 
body.  Their  contempt  maketh  their  valuing.  What 


is   it   that   created  valuing  and   despising  and  worth 
and  will  ? 

The  creative  self  created  for  itself  valuing  and 
despising,  it  created  for  itself  lust  and  woe.  The  creative 
body  created  for  itself  the  spirit  to  be  the  hand  of 
its  will. 

Even  in  your  folly  and  contempt,  ye  despisers  of 
body,  ye  are  serving  your  self.  I  say  unto  you : 
your  self  itself  is  going  to  die  and  turneth  away 
from  life. 

No  longer  is  it  able  to  do  what  it  liketh  best :  to 
create  something  beyond  itself.  That  it  liketh  best, 
that  is  its  whole  enthusiasm. 

But  now  it  is  too  late  for  it  to  attain  that  purpose  : 
— your  self  seeketh  to  perish,  ye  despisers  of  body. 

Your  self  seeketh  to  perish  and  therefore  ye  are 
become  despisers  of  body !  For  no  longer  are  ye 
able  to  create  anything  beyond  yourselves. 

And  therefore  are  ye  now  angry  at  life  and  earth. 
An  unconscious  envy  is  in  the  sidelong  look  of  your 

I  go  not  your  way,  ye  despisers  of  body  !     Ye  are 
no  bridges  to  beyond-man  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"My  brother,  when  thou  hast  a  virtue  and  it  is 
thy  virtue,  thou  hast  it  in  common  with  nobody. 

It  is  true  thou  wilt  call  it  by  a  name  and  pet  it ; 
thou  wilt  pull  its  ear  and  amuse  thyself  with  it. 

And  lo  !  now  thou  hast  its  name  in  common  with 
the  folk  and  hast  become  folk  and  herd  with  thy 
virtue  ! 

It  would  be  better  for  thee  to  say  :  '  Unutterable 
and  nameless  is  that  which  maketh  my  soul's  pain  and 
sweetness,  and  it  is  a  hunger  of  mine  intestines.' 

Let  thy  virtue  be  too  high  for  the  familiarity  of 
names  :  and  if  thou  hast  to  speak  of  it,  be  not  ashamed 
to  stammer. 

Speak  and  stammer  :  '  That  is  my  good,  that  love 
I,  thus  it  pleaseth  me  entirely,  thus  alone  will  I  the  good. 

I  do  not  will  it  as  the  law  of  a  God,  I  do  not 
will  it  as  the  statute  or  requirement  of  man  :  it  shall 
not  be  a  landmark  for  me  to  beyond-earths  or  para- 


It  is  an  earthly  virtue  that  I  love  :  there  is  little 
prudence  in  it,  and  still  less  the  reason  common 
to  all. 

But  that  bird  hath  built  its  nest  with  me  :  that  is 
why  I  love  and  embrace  it, — now  with  me  it  sitteth 
on  golden  eggs.' 

Thus  thou  shalt  stammer,  praising  thy  virtue. 

Once  having  passions  thou  calledst  them  evil.  Now, 
however,  thou  hast  nothing  but  thy  virtues  :  they  grow 
out  of  thy  passions. 

Thou  laidest  thy  highest  goal  upon  these  passions  : 
then  they  became  thy  virtues  and  delights. 

And  though  thou  wert  from  the  stock  of  the 
choleric,  or  of  the  voluptuous,  or  of  the  religiously  frantic, 
or  of  the  vindictive  : 

At  last  all  thy  passions  grew  virtues,  and  all  thy 
devils  angels. 

Once  thou  hadst  wild  dogs  in  thy  cellar  ;  but  at 
last  they  changed  into  birds  and  sweet  singers. 

Out  of  thy  poisons  thou  brewedst  a  balsam  for 
thee  ;  thou  didst  milk  thy  cow  of  sorrow — now  thou 
drinkest  the  sweet  milk  of  its  udder. 

And  from  this  time  forth,  nothing  evil  groweth  out 
of  thee,  unless  it  be  the  evil  that  groweth  out  of  the 
struggle  of  thy  virtues. 

My  brother,  if  thou  hast  good  luck,  thou  hast  one 
virtue  and  no  more :  thus  thou  walkest  more  easily 
over  the  bridge. 


It  is  a  distinction  to  have  many  virtues,  but  a  hard 
lot ;  and  many  having  gone  to  the  desert  killed  them- 
selves, because  they  were  tired  of  being  the  battle  and 
battlefield  of  virtues. 

My  brother,  are  warfare  and  battle  evil  ?  But 
necessary  is  this  evil,  necessary  are  envy  and  mistrust 
and  backbiting  among  thy  virtues. 

Behold,  how  each  of  thy  virtues  is  covetous  for 
the  highest :  it  longeth  for  thy  whole  spirit  to  be  its 
herald,  it  longeth  for  thy  whole  power  in  wrath,  love 
and  hatred. 

Jealous  is  each  virtue  of  the  other,  and  a  terrible 
thing  is  jealousy.  Even  virtues  may  perish  from  jealousy. 

He  who  is  encompassed  by  the  flame  of  jealousy 
at  last,  like  the  scorpion,  turneth  the  poisonous  sting 
towards  himself. 

Alas,  my  brother,  didst  thou  never  see  a  virtue 
backbite  and  stab  itself? 

Man  is  a  something  that  must  be  surpassed  :  and 
therefore  thou  shalt  love  thy  virtues  :  for  thou  wilt 
perish  from  them." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Ye  are  not  going  to  slay,  ye  judges  and  sacrificers, 
before  the  animal  hath  nodded.  Behold,  the  pale  criminal 
hath  nodded  :  from  his  eye  there  speaketh  the  great 

'  Mine  I  is  a  something  that  shall  be  surpassed :  for 
me  mine  I  is  the  great  contempt  of  man  : '  thus 
something  speaketh  out  of  that  eye. 

His  highest  moment  was  when  he  judged  himself: 
let  not  the  sublime  one  fall  back  into  his  lower 
state ! 

There  is  no  salvation  for  him  who  thus  suffereth 
from  himself  unless  it  be  speedy  death. 

Your  slaying,  ye  judges,  shall  be  pity  and  not 
revenge.  And  wThilst  slaying  take  care  to  justify  life 

It  is  not  enough  that  ye  should  be  reconciled 
unto  him  whom  ye  are  slaying.  Let  your  sorrow 
be  love  unto  beyond-man  :  thus  ye  justify  your  still 


'  Enemy '  ye  shall  say,  but  not  '  wicked  one  ; ' 
'diseased  one'  ye  shall  say,  but  not  'wretch;'  'fool' 
ye  shall  say,  but  not  'sinner.' 

And  thou,  red  judge,  if  thou  wert  to  declare  aloud 
all  that  thou  hast  done  in  thy  thoughts,  everybody 
would  cry  :  'Away  with  this  filth  and  worm  of 
poison ! ' 

But  one  thing  is  thought,  another  is  deed,  another 
is  the  picture  of  the  deed.  The  wheel  of  reason  rolleth 
not  between  them. 

A  picture  made  this  pale  man  pale.  Of  the  same 
growth  with  himself  was  his  deed  when  he  did  it ;  but 
when  it  was  done,  he  could  not  bear  the  picture  of  it. 

He  ever  saw  himself  as  the  doer  of  one  deed. 
Madness  I  call  that  :  the  exceptional  was  engrained 
upon  his  nature. 

The  streak  of  chalk  paralyseth  the  hen  ;  the  stroke 
he  struck  paralysed  his  poor  reason. — Madness  after 
the  deed  I  call  that. 

Listen,  ye  judges  !  There  is,  besides,  another  mad- 
ness :  it  is  before  the  deed.  Alas,  ye  did  not  creep  far 
enough  into  this  soul  ! 

Thus  speaketh  the  red  judge :  '  Why  did  that 
criminal  murder  ?  He  was  going  to  rob.'  But  I  say 
unto  you  :  his  soul  asked  for  blood,  not  for  prey  :  he 
was  thirsting  for  the  happiness  of  the  knife  ! 

But  his  poor  reason  understood  not  that  madness 
and  persuaded  him.  '  What  is  blood  worth  ! '  it  said  ; 


4  wouldst  not  thou  at  least  make  a  prey  along  with  it  ? 
take  revenge  along  with  it?' 

And  he  hearkened  unto  his  poor  reason  :  like  lead 
its  speech  lay  upon  him, — then  he  robbed  when 
murdering.  He  did  not  like  to  be  ashamed  of  his 

And  now  again  lieth  the  lead  of  his  guilt  upon 
him,  and  again  his  poor  reason  is  so  chilled,  so  para- 
lysed, so  heavy. 

If  he  could  but  shake  his  head,  that  burden  would 
roll  off.  But  who  will  shake  that  head  ? 

What  is  this  man  ?  A  mass  of  diseases  which  through 
the  spirit  reach  out  into  the  world :  there  they  are 
going  to  prey. 

What  is  this  man  ?  A  coil  of  wild  serpents  which 
seldom  are  at  rest  with  each  other — thus  singly  they 
depart  to  search  for  prey  in  the  world. 

Behold  this  poor  body  !  What  it  suffered  and 
longed  for,  this  poor  soul  interpreted  :  it  interpreted 
it  as  a  murderous  lust  and  greediness  for  the  happiness 
of  the  knife. 

He  who  is  diseased  now  is  surprised  by  the  evil 
which  is  evil  now.  He  willeth  to  cause  pain  with 
what  causeth  pain  to  him.  But  there  have  been  other 
times  and  another  evil  and  another  good. 

Once  doubt  and  the  will  unto  self  were  evil.  Then 
the  diseased  became  heretics  or  witches  :  as  heretics 
or  witches  they  suffered  and  sought  to  cause  suffering. 


This  however  entereth  not  into  your  ears ;  it  is 
hurtful  unto  your  good  ones,  ye  say  unto  me.  But 
what  are  your  good  ones  worth  unto  me  ! 

Many  things  in  your  good  ones  cause  loathing 
unto  me — not  what  is  evil  in  them.  I  even  wish  they 
had  a  madness  from  which  they  might  perish  like 
this  pale  criminal. 

Indeed  I  wish  their  madness  could  be  named  truth 
or  faithfulness  or  justice  :  but  they  have  their  virtue  to 
live  long  and  in  a  miserable  ease. 

I  am  a  railing  alongside  the  stream  ;  whoever  is 
able  to  seize  me,  may  seize  me.  Your  crutch,  how- 
ever, I  am  not." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Of  all  that  is  written  I  love  only  that  which  the 
writer  wrote  with  his  blood.  Write  with  blood,  and 
thou  wilt  learn  that  blood  is  spirit. 

It  is  not  easily  possible  to  understand  other  people's 
blood.  I  hate  the  reading  idlers. 

He  who  knoweth  the  reader  doth  nothing  more 
for  the  reader.  Another  century  of  readers — and  spirit 
itself  will  stink. 

That  everybody  is  allowed  to  learn  to  read  spoileth 
in  the  long  run  not  only  writing  but  thinking. 

Once  spirit  was  God,  then  it  became  man,  and  now 
it  is  becoming  mob. 

He  who  writeth  in  blood  and  apophthegms  seeketh 
not  to  be  read,  but  to  be  learnt  by  heart. 

In  the  mountains  the  shortest  way  is  from  summit 
to  summit :  but  for  that  thou  needest  long  legs.  Apo- 
phthegms shall  be  summits,  and  they  who  are  spoken 
unto,  great  ones  and  tall. 

The   air   rarified   and   pure,  danger  near,  and  the 


spirit  full  of  a  gay  wickedness :  these  agree  well 

I  desire  to  have  goblins  round  me,  for  I  am  brave. 
Courage  that  dispelleth  ghosts  createth  goblins  for  it- 
self,— courage  desireth  to  laugh. 

I  no  longer  feel  as  ye  do  :  this  cloud  which  I  see 
beneath  me,  that  blackness  and  heaviness  at  which  I 
laugh, — that  is  your  thunder-cloud. 

Ye  look  upward  when  longing  to  be  exalted.  And 
I  look  downward  because  I  am  exalted. 

Which  of  you  can  at  the  same  time  laugh  and  be 
exalted  ? 

He  who  strideth  across  the  highest  mountains  laugh- 
eth  at  all  tragedies  whether  of  the  stage  or  of  life. 

Brave,  unconcerned,  scornful,  violent, — thus  wisdom 
would  have  us  to  be  :  she  is  a  woman  and  ever  loveth 
the  warrior  only. 

Ye  say  unto  me:  ' Life  is  hard  to  bear.'  But  for 
what  purpose  have  ye  got  in  the  morning  your  pride 
and  in  the  evening  your  submission  ? 

Life  is  hard  to  bear.  But  do  not  pretend  to  be 
so  frail  !  We  are  all  good  he-asses  and  she-asses  of 

What  have  we  in  common  with  the  rose-bud  that 
trembleth  because  a  drop  of  dew  lieth  on  its  body? 

It  is  true  :  we  love  life,  not  because  we  are  ac- 
customed to  life,  but  because  we  are  accustomed  to 



There  is  always  a  madness  in  love.  There  is,  how- 
ever, also  always  a  reason  in  madness. 

And  to  my  thinking  as  a  lover  of  life,  butterflies, 
soap-bubbles,  and  whatever  is  of  their  kind  among  men, 
know  most  of  happiness. 

To  see  these  light,  foolish,  delicate,  mobile  little 
souls  flitting  about — that  moveth  Zarathustra  to  tears 
and  to  song. 

I  could  believe  only  in  a  God  who  would  know 
how  to  dance. 

And  when  I  saw  my  devil,  I  found  him  earnest, 
thorough,  deep,  solemn  :  he  was  the  spirit  of  gravity, — 
through  him  all  things  fall. 

Not  through  wrath  but  through  laughter  one 
slayeth.  Arise  !  let  us  slay  the  spirit  of  gravity  ! 

I  learned  to  walk  :  now  I  let  myself  run.  I  learned 
to  fly :  now  I  need  no  pushing  to  move  me  from 
the  spot. 

Now  I  am  light,  now  I  fly,  now  I  see  myself 
beneath  myself,  now  a  God  danceth  through  me." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


Zarathustra's  eye  had  seen  that  a  young  man 
avoided  him.  And  one  night  when  walking  alone 
through  the  hills  round  about  the  town  that  is 
called  "  the  Cow  of  Many  Colours  : "  behold,  walking 
there  he  found  that  young  man  sitting  with  his 
back  against  a  tree  and  gazing  into  the  valley 
with  a  tired  look.  Zarathustra  taking  hold  of  the 
tree  against  which  the  young  man  was  sitting  spake 
thus  : 

"  If  I  wished  to  shake  this  tree  with  my  hands  I 
could  not  do  so. 

But  the  wind  which  we  do  not  see  tormenteth  and 
bendeth  it  wherever  is  listeth.  By  unseen  hands  we 
are  bent  and  tormented  worst." 

Astonished  the  young  man  rose  and  said  :  "  I  hear 
Zarathustra  and  was  just  thinking  of  him."  Zarathustra 
answered  : 

"  Wherefore  dost  thou  fear  ?  It  is  with  man  as 
with  the  tree. 



The  more  he  'would  ascend  to  height  and  light  the 
stronger  are  his  roots  striving  earthwards,  downwards, 
into  the  dark,  the  deep, — the  evil." 

"Ay,  towards  the  evil ! "  cried  the  youth.  "  How 
was  it  possible  for  thee  to  discover  my  soul  ? " 

Zarathustra  said  smiling  :  "  Some  souls  will  never 
be  discovered,  unless  they  be  invented  first." 

"Ay,  towards  the  evil  ! "  repeated  the  youth. 

"  Thou  saidst  the  truth,  Zarathustra.  I  do  not  trust 
myself  any  longer  since  I  am  striving  upwards,  neither 
doth  anybody  else  trust  me — say,  how  is  that  ? 

I  alter  too  quickly  :  my  to-day  refuteth  my  yester- 
day. I  frequently  overleap  steps  when  I  ascend — no 
step  pardoneth  me  for  that. 

When  I  reach  the  summit  I  always  find  myself 
alone.  Nobody  speaketh  unto  me,  the  frost  of  solitude 
maketh  me  tremble.  What  do  I  seek  on  high  ? 

My  contempt  and  longing  grow  together ;  the  higher 
I  ascend  the  more  I  despise  him  who  ascendeth.  What 
seeketh  he  on  high  ? 

How  ashamed  I  am  of  mine  ascending  and  stumbl- 
ing !  How  I  mock  at  my  vehement  panting  and  puff- 
ing !  How  I  hate  him  who  flieth  !  How  tired  I  am 
on  high  ! " 

Here  the  youth  was  silent.  And  Zarathustra  con- 
templating the  tree  by  which  they  stood  spake  thus: 

"  This  tree  standeth  lonely  by  the  mountains ;  it 
grew  high  beyond  man  and  animal. 


And  if  it  were  to  speak  it  would  have  nobody  to 
understand  it :  so  high  hath  it  grown. 

Now,  it  is  waiting  and  waiting, — for  what  is  it 
waiting,  say  ?  It  dwelleth  too  close  to  the  clouds : 
It  is  waiting  I  suppose  for  the  first  lightning  ? " 

Zarathustra  having  so  said,  the  youth  cried  with 
vehement  gesture:  "Ay,  Zarathustra,  thou  speakest 
truth.  It  was  for  my,  destruction  that  I  longed  when 
I  was  striving  upwards,  and  thou  art  the  lightning 
I  waited  for !  Behold,  what  am  I  since  thou  hast 
appeared  unto  us  ?  It  is  the  envy  of  thee  which  hath 
destroyed  me  !  "  Speaking  thus  the  youth  wept  bitterly. 
Zarathustra,  however,  put  his  arm  round  him  and  led 
him  away  with  him. 

When  they  had  walked  a  while  together  Zarathustra 
thus  began  : 

"It  teareth  my  heart.  Better  than  thy  words  say 
it,  thine  eye  telleth  me  all  thy  danger. 

Thou  art  not  free  yet,  thou  seekest  freedom  still. 
Weary  with  watching  thou  art  made  by  thy  seeking, 
and  much  too  wakeful. 

Towards  the  free  height  thou  art  striving,  for  stars 
thy  soul  is  thirsting.  But  thy  bad  instincts  are  also 
thirsting  for  freedom. 

Thy  wild  dogs  seek  freedom  ;  in  their  cellar  they 
bark  for  lust  when  thy  spirit  seeketh  to  open  all 

To  me  thou  art  still  a  prisoner  meditating  freedom 


for  himself :  alas  !  ingenious  becometh  the  soul  of  such 
prisoners,  but  guileful  and  bad  also. 

Even  he  who  is  freed  in  spirit  must  purify  him- 
self. Much  of  prison  and  mould  is  still  left  in  him  : 
his  eye  needeth  to  be  purified. 

Ay,  I  know  thy  danger.  But  by  my  love  and 
hope  I  conjure  thee  :  throw  not  away  thy  love  and 
hope  ! 

Noble  thou  feelest  thyself,  and  that  thou  art  noble 
feel  even  the  others  who  are  angry  with  thee  and 
cast  evil  glances.  Know  that  a  noble  one  is  in  the 
way  of  all. 

A  noble  one  is  in  the  way  of  the  good  :  and  even 
if  they  call  him  a  good  one,  by  so  doing  they  seek 
to  put  him  aside. 

The  noble  one  wisheth  to  create  something  new 
and  a  new  virtue.  The  good  one  willeth  that  old  things 
should  be  preserved. 

But  that  is  not  the  danger  of  the  noble  one,  to 
become  a  good  one,  but  to  become  an  insolent,  a 
sneering  one,  a  destroyer. 

Alas,  I  have  known  noble  ones  who  lost  their 
highest  hope.  And  then  they  slandered  all  high  hopes. 

Then  they  lived  insolently  in  brief  pleasure,  and 
scarcely  made  any  of  their  goals  beyond  the  day. 

'Spirit  is  voluptuousness  also' — said  they.  Then 
they  broke  the  wings  of  their  spirit  :  now  it  creepeth 
about  and  soileth  whilst  it  gnaweth. 


Once  they  thought  of  becoming  heroes :  men  of 
pleasure  they  are  now.  A  hero  is  a  grief  and  a  horror 
for  them. 

But  by  my  love  and  hope  I  conjure  thee  :  throw 
not  away  the  hero  in  thy  soul !  Keep  holy  thy  high- 
est hope ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  There  are  preachers  of  death,  and  the  earth  is  full 
of  those  unto  whom  it  is  necessary  to  preach  the  aban- 
donment of  life. 

Full  is  earth  of  superfluous  ones,  spoiled  is  life  by 
the  much-too-many.  Would  they  could  be  tempted 
away  from  this  life  by  '  eternal  life.' 

'Yellow  ones'  the  preachers  of  death  are  called 
or  'black  ones.'  I  shall,  however,  show  them  unto 
you  in  other  colours  besides. 

There  are  the  terrible  who  carry  about  within 
themselves  a  beast  of  prey  and  have  no  choice  except 
voluptuousness  or  self-laceration.  And  even  their 
voluptuousness  is  self-laceration. 

They  have  not  even  become  human  beings,  these 
terrible  ones :  let  them  preach  abandonment  of  life 
and  themselves  pass  away  ! 

There  are  the  consumptive  of  soul.  When  scarce 
born  they  begin  to  die  and  long  for  the  doctrine  of 
weariness  and  renunciation. 


They  would  fain  be  dead,  and  we  should  approve 
of  their  will !  Let  us  beware  lest  we  awaken  these 
dead  ones  or  damage  these  living  coffins  ! 

Whenever  they  meet  with  a  diseased  or  an  old 
man  or  a  corpse  they  say :  '  Life  hath  been  refuted.' 

But  only  they  themselves  are  refuted  and  their  eye 
that  seeth  only  that  one  face  of  existence. 

Wrapped  in  thick  melancholy  and  hungry  for 
those  little  accidents  which  produce  death  they  wait 
with  clenched  teeth. 

Or  :  they  reach  out  for  sweetmeats  and  so  doing 
mock  their  own  childishness  :  they  cling  to  the  straw 
of  their  life  and  mock  because  they  are  hanging  on 
a  straw. 

Their  wisdom  is  :  'A  fool  he  who  remaineth  alive ; 
but  to  that  extent  we  are  fools !  And  that  is  the 
greatest  folly  of  life  ! ' 

'  Life  is  but  suffering ' — others  say,  and  they  do 
not  lie.  Well  then,  see  that  you  die  !  See  to  it  that 
life  which  is  but  suffering  come  to  an  end. 

And  let  this  be  the  teaching  of  your  virtue : 
'Thou  shalt  kill  thyself!  thou  shalt  steal  thyself 
away ! ' 

'Lust  is  sin,' — the  preachers  of  death  say — 'let  us 
turn  aside  and  produce  no  children  ! ' 

'  Giving  birth  is  toilsome ' — say  the  others — '  Why 
give  birth  ?  One  giveth  birth  to  unhappy  ones 
only  ! '  And  they  also  are  preachers  of  death. 


'  Pity  is  needed  '-^-a  third  section  say.  'Accept  from 
me  whatever  I  have  !  Accept  from  me  whatever  I 
am.  The  less  am  I  bound  unto  life  ! ' 

Were  they  piteous  at  heart,  they  would  set  the 
minds  of  their  neighbours  against  life.  To  be  evil — 
that  would  be  their  proper  goodness. 

They  yearn  to  be  rid  of  life  :  what  care  they  it 
with  their  chains  and  gifts  they  tie  others  the  faster  ! 

Ye  also  to  whom  life  is  stormful  labour  and  unrest : 
are  ye  not  wearied  of  life  ?  Are  ye  not  ripe  for  the 
sermon  of  death  ? 

All  of  you  to  whom  stormful  labour  is  dear,  and 
what  is  swift,  what  is  new  and  what  is  strange  are 
dear,  ye  bear  yourselves  ill ;  your  industry  is  retreat  and 
will  to  forget  itself. 

If  ye  had  more  belief  in  life  ye  would  yield  your- 
selves the  less  to  the  moment.  But  ye  have  not  enough 
substance  within  you  to  enable  you  to  wait,  not  even 
to  idle. 

Everywhere  soundeth  the  voice  of  the  preachers  of 
death  :  and  the  earth  is  full  of  those  unto  whom  it  is 
necessary  to  preach  death. 

Or  :  '  eternal  life  : '  that  is  the  same  unto  me,— if 
they  only  pass  away  quickly  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  We  like  neither  to  be  spared  by  our  best  enemies, 
nor  by  those  whom  we  love  from  our  heart  of  heart. 
Let  me  tell  you  the  truth  ! 

My  brethren  in  war  !  I  love  you  from  my  heart's 
heart.  I  am  and  was  your  like.  And,  besides,  I  am 
your  best  enemy.  Therefore  let  me  tell  you  the  truth  ! 

I  know  the  hatred  and  envy  of  your  heart.  Ye 
are  not  great  enough  not  to  know  hatred  and  envy. 
Then  be  great  enough  not  to  be  ashamed  of  them  ! 

And  if  ye  cannot  be  saints  of  knowledge,  at  least 
be  its  warriors.  They  are  the  companions  and  pioneers 
of  the  saints'  holiness. 

I  see  many  soldiers :  would  I  could  see  many 
warriors  !  '  Uniform '  they  call  what  they  wear : 
would  it  were  not  uniform  what  they  hide  under  it ! 

Ye  shall  be  like  unto  them  whose  eye  is  ever  look- 
ing out  for  the  enemy — for  your  enemy.  And  with  a 
few  of  you  there  is  hatred  at  first  sight. 

Ye  shall  seek  your  own  enemy,  ye  shall  wage 
your  own  war,  and  for  your  own  thoughts.  And  if 


your  thought  be  conquered,  your  honesty  shall  shout 
victory  over  it. 

Ye  shall  love  peace  as  a  means  to  new  wars,  and 
the  short  peace  better  than  the  long. 

I  do  not  advise  you  to  work,  but  to  fight.  I  do 
not  advise  you  to  conclude  peace,  but  to  conquer. 
Let  your  work  be  a  fight,  your  peace  a  victory  ! 

One  cannot  be  silent  and  sit  still  unless  one  hath 
bow  and  arrow.  Otherwise  one  talketh  and  quarrelleth. 
Let  your  peace  be  a  victory  ! 

Ye  say,  a  good  cause  will  hallow  even  war  ?  I 
say  unto  you  :  a  good  war  halloweth  every  cause. 

War  and  courage  have  done  more  great  things 
than  charity.  Not  your  pity,  but  your  bravery,  hath 
hitherto  saved  those  who  had  met  with  an  accident. 

What  is  good  ?  ye  ask.  To  be  brave  is  good. 
Let  the  little  girlies  talk  :  '  To  be  good  is  what  is 
sweet  and  touching  at  the  same  time.' 

They  call  you  heartless :  but  your  heart  is  ge- 
nuine, and  I  love  the  shame  of  your  heartiness.  Ye 
are  ashamed  of  your  flood-tide,  and  others  are  ashamed 
of  their  ebb. 

Ye  are  ugly  ?  Well  then,  my  brethren  !  Wrap 
the  sublime  round  yourselves,  the  mantle  of  what 
is  ugly  ! 

And  when  your  soul  waxeth  great  it  waxeth 
haughty,  and  in  your  sublimity  there  is  wickedness. 
I  know  you. 


In  wickedness  the  haughty  one  and  the  weakling 
meet.  But  they  misunderstand  each  other.  I  know  you. 

Ye  are  permitted  to  have  enemies  only  who  are 
to  be  hated  ;  not  enemies  who  are  to  be  despised.  Ye 
are  to  be  proud  of  your  enemy  :  then  the  success  of 
your  enemy  is  your  success  also. 

Rebellion,  that  is  superiority  in  the  slave.  Let 
your  superiority  be  obedience,  your  commanding  even 
be  an  obeying  ! 

To  a  good  warrior  '  Thou  shalt '  soundeth  more 
agreeably  than  '  I  will.'  And  all  that  will  be  dear 
unto  you,  ye  shall  yet  be  commanded. 

Let  your  love  unto  life  be  love  unto  your  highest 
hope:  and  your  highest  hope  the  highest  thought  of 
your  life  ! 

Your  highest  thought,  however,  ye  shall  be  ordain- 
ed by  myself — and  it  is  :  man  is  a  something  that  shall 
be  surpassed. 

Thus  live  your  life  of  obedience  and  war  !  What 
is  long  life  worth  ?  What  warrior  wisheth  to  be 
spared  ? 

I  do  not  spare  you,  I  love  you  from  the  heart  of 
my  heart,  my  brethren  in  war  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"Somewhere  there  are  still  peoples  and  herds,  but 
not  with  us,  my  brethren  :  with  us  there*  are  states. 

The  state  ?  What  is  that  ?  Well !  now  open  your 
ears,  for  now  I  deliver  my  sentence  on  the  death  of 

The  state  is  called  the  coldest  of  all  cold  monsters. 
And  coldly  it  lieth  ;  and  this  lie  creepeth  out  of  its 
mouth  :  '  I,  the  state,  am  the  people.' 

It  is  a  lie  !  Creators  they  were  who  created  the 
peoples  and  hung  one  belief  and  one  love  over  them  ; 
thus  they  served  life. 

Destroyers  they  are  who  lay  traps  for  many,  calling 
them  the  state  :  they  hung  a  sword  and  a  hundred 
desires  over  them. 

Wherever  a  people  is  left,  it  understandeth  not  the 
state  but  hateth  it  as  the  evil  eye  and  a  sin  against 
customs  and  rights. 

This  sign  I  show  unto  you  :  every  people  speaketh 
its  own  tongue  of  good  and  evil — not  understood  by 


its  neighbour.  Every  people  hath  found  out  for  itself 
its  own  language  in  customs  and  rights. 

But  the  state  is  a  liar  in  all  tongues  of  good  and 
evil :  whatever  it  saith,  it  lieth ;  whatever  it  hath,  it 
hath  stolen. 

False  is  everything  in  it ;  with  stolen  teeth  it 
biteth,  the  biting  one.  False  are  even  its  intestines. 

Confusion  of  languages  of  good  and  evil.  This 
sign  I  show  unto  you  as  the  sign  of  the  state.  Verily, 
this  sign  pointeth  to  the  will  unto  death  !  Verily,  it 
waveth  hands  unto  the  preachers  of  death  ! 

Far  too  many  are  born:  for  the  superfluous  the 
state  was  invented. 

Behold,  behold,  how  it  allureth  them,  the  much-too- 
many  !  How  it  devoureth,  cheweth,  and  masticateth  them ! 

'  On  earth  there  is  nothing  greater  than  I ;  God's 
regulating  finger  am  I,'  thus  the  monster  howleth. 
And  not  only  those  with  long  ears  and  short  sight 
sink  upon  their  knees  ! 

Alas,  even  within  you,  ye  great  souls,  the  state 
whispereth  its  gloomy  lies  !  Alas  !  it  findeth  out  the 
rich  hearts  which  are  eager  to  squander  themselves  ! 

Ay,  it  findeth  out  even  you,  ye  conquerors  of  the 
old  God  !  Ye  got  wearied  in  the  battle,  and  now  your 
weariness  serveth  the  new  idol. 

The  new  idol  would  fain  surround  itselt  with 
heroes  and  honest  men  !  It  liketh  to  sun  itself  in 
the  sunshine  of  good  consciences — that  cold  monster  ! 


It  will  give  you  anything  if  you  adore  it,  the  new 
idol:  thus  it  buyeth  for  itself  the  splendour  of  your 
virtue  and  the  glance  of  your  proud  eyes. 

With  you  the  state  will  bait  the  hook  for  the 
much-too-many  !  Ay,  a  piece  of  hellish  machinery  was 
invented  then,  a  horse  of  death,  rattling  in  the  attire 
of  godlike  honours  ! 

Ay,  the  death  of  many  was  invented  then,  death 
which  praiseth  itself  as  life  :  verily,  a  welcome  service 
unto  all  preachers  of  death  ! 

What  I  call  the  state  is  where  all  are  poison- 
drinkers,  the  good  and  the  evil  alike.  What  I  call 
the  state  is  where  all  lose  themselves,  the  good  and 
the  evil  alike.  What  I  call  the  state  is  where  the  slow 
suicide  of  all  is  called  'life.' 

Look  at  those  superfluous  !  They  steal  the  works 
of  inventors  and  the  treasures  of  wise  men  :  their 
theft  they  call  education — and  for  them  everything 
turneth  into  disease  and  hardship  ! 

Look  at  those  superfluous  !  Diseased  they  ever  are, 
they  vomit  bile  and  call  it  newspaper.  They  devour 
but  cannot  digest  each  other. 

Look  at  those  superfluous !  They  acquire  riches  and 
become  poorer  thereby.  They  seek  power,  and  first  the 
crow-bar  of  power,  much  money — these  impotent  ones. 

See  how  they,  climb,  these  swift  apes  !  They  climb 
over  each  other  and  thus  drag  themselves  into  the 
mud  and  depths. 


They  all  strive  towards  the  throne  :  that  is  their 
madness, — as  though  happiness  were  sitting  on  the 
throne  !  Often  mud  sitteth  on  the  throne  ;  often  also 
the  throne  sitteth  on  the  mud. 

Madmen  they  are  all  to  my  mind,  and  climbing 
apes,  and  over-hot.  Ill  smelleth  to  me  their  idol,  that 
cold  monster  :  ill  smell  they  all  to  me,  these  idolaters. 

My  brethren,  will  ye  be  suffocated  in  the  damp  of 
their  mouths  and  desires  !  Rather  break  the  windows 
and  jump  into  the  open  air  ! 

Go,  I  pray,  out  of  the  way  of  the  evil  odour.  Go 
away  from  the  idolatry  of  the  superfluous. 

Go,  I  pray,  out  of  the  way  of  the  evil  odour  !  Go 
away  from  the  steam  of  these  human  sacrifices  ! 

For  great  souls  earth  is  yet  open.  For  hermits, 
and  hermits  in  pairs,  many  seats  are  yet  empty,  round 
which  floateth  the  odour  of  calm  seas. 

For  great  souls  a  free  life  is  still  open.  Verily,  he 
who  possesseth  little  is  possessed  still  less  :  a  modest 
poverty  be  praised  ! 

Where  the  state  ceaseth  there  beginneth  that  man 
who  is  not  superfluous  :  there  beginneth  the  song  of 
the  necessary,  the  melody  that  is  sung  once  and  cannot 
be  replaced. 

Where  the  state  ceaseth — look  there,  I  pray,  my 
brethren  !  Do  you  not  see  it,  the  rainbow  and  the 
bridges  of  beyond-man  ?  " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Fly,  my  friend,  into  thy  loneliness  !  I  see  thee 
stunned  by  the  noise  of  the  great  men  and  pierced 
by  the  stings  of  the  small. 

With  thee  forest  and  rock  know  how  to  be  fitly 
silent  Be  like  the  tree  again  which  thou  lovest,  the 
tree  with  broad  boughs  :  still  and  listening  it  hangeth 
over  the  sea. 

Where  loneliness  ceaseth,  the  market  beginneth, 
and  where  the  market  beginneth,  there  begin  also  the 
noise  of  the  great  actors  and  the  buzzing  of  the  poison- 
ous flies. 

In  the  world  even  the  best  things  are  useless  with- 
out somebody  to  show  them :  great  men  are  these 
showmen  called  by  the  folk. 

The  folk  little  understand  what  is  great,  i.  e.,  what 
createth.  But  they  have  eyes  and  ears  for  all  showmen 
and  actors  of  great  things. 

The  world  revolveth  round  the  inventors  of  new 
values  :— invisibly  it  revolveth.  But  the  folk  and  glory 
revolve  round  actors  :  such  is  life. 


The  actor  hath  spirit ;  but  little  conscience  of  spirit. 
He  always  believeth  in  that  by  which  he  maketh 
others  believe  most, — ?'.  e.,  to  believe  in  himself ! 

To-morrow  he  hath  a  new  belief,  and  the  day  after 
to-morrow  a  still  newer.  Quick  senses  he  hath,  like 
the  folk,  and  can  change  the  scent  quickly. 

To  overthrow — that  meaneth  for  him  :  to  prove. 
To  drive  mad — that  meaneth  for  him  :  to  convince. 
And  for  him  blood  is  the  best  of  all  reasons. 

A  truth  which  slippeth  only  into  sharp  ears  he 
calleth  a  lie  and  nothing.  Verily,  he  believeth  only  in 
Gods  that  make  a  great  noise  in  the  world  ! 

Full  of  noisy  clowns  is  the  market — and  the  folk 
boast  of  their  great  men.  Such  for  them  are  the 
masters  of  the  hour. 

But  the  hour  presseth  them  and  they  press  thee. 
From  thee  also  they  seek  a  Yea  or  Nay.  Alas  !  wilt 
thou  put  thy  chair  between  for  and  against ! 

As  for  these  unconditioned  and  pressing  ones  be 
thou,  O  lover  of  truth,  without  jealousy  !  Never  yet 
did  truth  hang  on  the  arm  of  an  unconditioned  one. 

As  for  these  sudden  ones,  return  unto  thy  safety  : 
it  is  only  at  the  market  that  one  is  surprised  by  the 
question  Yea  1  or  Nay  ? 

All  deep  wells  get  their  experience  slowly  :  they 
have  to  wait  long  before  they  know  what  hath  fallen 
to  the  bottom  of  them. 

Away  from  the  market  and  glory  happeneth  every- 


thing  that  is  great :  -away  from  the  market  and  glory 
have  ever  lived  the  inventors  of  new  values. 

Fly,  my  friend,  into  thy  loneliness  :  I  see  thee  stung 
all  over  by  poisonous  flies.  Fly  where  the  rough, 
strong  wind  bloweth  ! 

Fly  into  thy  loneliness  !  Thou  hast  lived  too  close 
unto  the  small  and  miserable.  Fly  from  their  invisible 
revenge  !  Against  thee  they  are  nothing  but  revenge. 

Lift  no  more  thine  arm  against  them  !  Innumer- 
able are  they ;  neither  is  it  thy  lot  to  be  a  fly-brush. 

Innumerable  are  these  small  and  miserable  ones  ; 
and  many  a  proud  building  the  raindrops  and  weeds 
have  destroyed. 

Thou  art  not  a  stone,  but  already  thou  hast  been 
hollowed  out  by  the  many  drops.  Under  the  many 
drops  thou  wilt  break  into  pieces  and  burst  asunder. 

I  see  thee  wearied  by  poisonous  flies  and  blood 
drawn  at  a  hundred  spots ;  and  thy  pride  will  not  even 
be  angry. 

In  all  innocence  they  seek  to  draw  blood  from  thee, 
their  bloodless  souls  crave  for  blood — and  therefore  in 
all  innocence  they  sting. 

But  thou  deep  one,  thou  sufferest  too  greatly,  even 
from  small  wounds ;  and  ere  thou  art  healed,  the  same 
poisonous  worm  creepeth  over  thy  hand. 

Thou  art,  I  know,  too  proud  to  kill  these  dainty- 
mouthed.  But  take  care  that  it  be  not  thy  fate  to 
endure  all  their  poisonous  wrong. 


They  also  hum  round  thee  with  their  praise  :  their 
praise  is  impudence.  They  seek  to  have  nigh  unto 
them  thy  skin  and  thy  blood. 

They  flatter  thee  like  a  God  or  devil ;  they  whimper 
before  thee  as  before  a  God  or  devil.  What  matter  ? 
Flatterers  they  are  and  whimperers,  that  is  all. 

They  also  frequently  present  themselves  unto  thee 
as  amiable.  But  that  hath  ever  been  the  prudence  of 
cowards.  Ay,  cowards  are  prudent. 

They  think  much  about  thee  with  their  narrow 
souls,  thou  art  ever  suspected  of  them  !  Whatever  is 
much  reflected  upon,  becometh  suspected. 

They  punish  thee  for  all  thy  virtues.  From  the 
heart  of  their  heart  they  only  pardon  thee — thy  mis- 

Because  thou  art  tender  and  of  a  just  mind  thou 
sayest :  '  Their  small  existence  is  not  their  fault.'  But 
their  narrow  soul  thinketh  :  '  Guilty  is  all  great  exist- 

Even  if  thou  art  tender  unto  them  they  think  that 
thou  despisest  them  ;  and  they  return  thy  benefits 
with  secret  harms. 

Thy  unspoken  pride  is  ever  against  their  taste  ; 
they  exult,  when  once  thou  art  modest  enough  to 
be  idle. 

Whatever  we  recognise  in  a  man,  we  inflame  in 
him.  Therefore  beware  of  the  small. — 

They  feel  themselves  to  be  small  before  thee,  and 


their  lowness  glimmereth  and  gloweth  in  invisible 
revenge  against  thee. 

Sawest  thou  not  how  often  they  were  silent  when 
thou  earnest  nigh  unto  them,  and  how  their  power 
left  them  as  the  smoke  leaveth  a  fire  that  is  going 

Ay,  my  friend,  thou  art  the  bad  conscience  for  thy 
neighbours  ;  for  they  are  unworthy  of  thee.  That  is 
why  they  hate  thee  and  would  fain  suck  thy  blood. 

Thy  neighbours  will  always  be  poisonous  flies. 
That  which  is  great  in  thee — that  itself  must  make 
them  still  more  poisonous  and  ever  more  like  flies. 

Fly,  my  friend,  into  thy  loneliness  and  where  the 
rough,  strong  wind  bloweth.  It  is  not  thy  lot  to  be 
a  fly-brush." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  I  love  the  forest.  It  is  bad  to  live  in  towns  :  too 
many  of  the  lustful  are  there. 

Is  it  not  better  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  murderer 
than  into  the  dreams  of  a  lustful  woman  ? 

And  look  at  these  men  :  their  eye  saith  it — they 
know  of  nothing  better  on  earth  than  to  lie  by  a 
woman's  side. 

Mud  is  at  the  bottom  of  their  soul ;  alas  !  if  there 
is  spirit  in  their  mud  ! 

Would  ye  were  perfect,  at  least  as  animals  are. 
But  innocence  is  a  necessary  quality  of  animals. 

Do  I  counsel  you  to  slay  your  senses  ?  I  counsel 
the  innocence  of  the  senses. 

Do  I  counsel  chastity  ?  Chastity  is  a  virtue  with 
some,  but  with  most  almost  a  vice. 

True,  these  abstain  :  but  the  she-dog  of  sensuality 
looketh  with  envy  out  of  all  they  do. 

This  beast  and  its  no-peace  followeth  them  even 
unto  the  heights  of  their  virtues  and  into  their  cold 


And  with  what  grace  the  she-dog  of  sensuality 
knoweth  how  to  beg  for  a  piece  of  spirit,  if  it  be 
denied  a  piece  of  flesh  ! 

Ye  love  tragedies  and  all  that  breaketh  the  heart 
to  pieces.  I  am  suspicious,  however,  of  your  she-dog. 

Ye  have  too  cruel  eyes  and  look  wantonly  for 
sufferers.  Hath  not  your  lust  merely  been  disguised 
by  calling  itself  pity  ? 

This  other  parable  I  speak  unto  you  :  not  a  few 
who  sought  to  drive  out  their  devil,  went  themselves 
into  the  swine. 

He  unto  whom  chastity  is  hard  is  to  be  counselled 
against  it :  in  order  that  it  may  not  become  the  way 
unto  hell,  i.  e.,  to  mud  and  concupiscence  of  the  soul. 

Speak  I  of  dirty  things  ?  That  is  not  the  worst 
for  me. 

Not  when  truth  is  dirty,  but  when  it  is  shallow 
doth  he  who  perceiveth  dislike  to  step  into  its  water. 

Verily,  there  are  some  who  are  chaste  to  the 
bottom  :  they  are  more  tender  in  their  hearts,  they 
like  to  laugh  more  and  oftener  than  ye  do. 

They    also    laugh    at    chastity,    asking :    '  What   is 
chastity  ! 

Is  chastity  not  folly?  But  that  folly  hath  come 
unto  us,  not  we  unto  it. 

We  offered  that  guest  house  and  heart :  now  he 
liveth  with  us,— let  him  stay  as  long  as  he  liketh  ! ' " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


" '  There  is  always  one  too  many  about  me ' —  thus 
thinketh  the  hermit.  'Always  once  one — that  maketh 
in  the  long  run  two. 

I  and  me  are  always  too  eager  in  a  conversation  : 
how  could  it  be  borne  if  there  were  not  a  friend  ? ' 

For  the  hermit  a  friend  is  always  the  third  one  : 
the  third  one  is  the  cork  that  hindereth  the  conver- 
sation of  the  two  from  sinking  into  the  depth. 

Alas  !  there  are  too  many  depths  for  all  hermits. 
That  is  why  they  long  so  much  for  a  friend  and  his 

Our  belief  in  others  betrayeth  what  we  would  fain 
believe  in  ourselves.  Our  longing  for  a  friend  is  our 

And  often  with  love  one  only  trieth  to  overleap 
envy.  And  frequently  one  assaileth  and  maketh  an- 
other one's  enemy  in  order  to  hide  the  fast  of  one's 
self  being  assailable. 

'  Be  at  least  mine  enemy : '  thus  saith  true  reverence 
that  dareth  not  ask  for  friendship. 


If  one  seek  to  have  a  friend  one  must  also  be 
ready  to  wage  war  for  him  :  and  in  order  to  wage 
war  one  most  be  able  to  be  an  enemy. 

In  one's  friend  one  shall  honour  the  enemy.  Canst 
thou  step  close  unto  thy  friend  without  going  over 
to  him  ? 

In  one's  friend  one  shall  have  one's  best  enemy. 
Thou  shalt  be  closest  unto  him  with  thy  heart,  when 
thou  resistest  him. 

Thou  wouldst  not  wear  clothes  in  the  presence  of 
thy  friend.  It  is  to  honour  thy  friend  that  thou  pre- 
sentest  thyself  unto  him  as  thou  art  ?  But  he  there- 
fore wisheth  thee  to  go  unto  the  devil. 

He  who  maketh  no  secret  of  himself  shocketh  :  so 
much  reason  have  ye  to  fear  nakedness  !  Ay,  if  ye 
were  Gods,  ye  might  well  be  ashamed  of  your  clothing! 

For  thy  friend  thou  canst  not  adorn  thyself  beauti- 
fully enough  :  for  unto  him  thou  shalt  be  an  arrow 
and  a  longing  towards  beyond-man. 

Didst  thou  ever  see  thy  friend  asleep  so  as  to  learn 
what  he  is  like  ?  What  is  thy  friend's  face  at  other 
times  ?  It  is  thine  own  face  seen  in  a  rough  and  im- 
perfect looking  glass. 

Didst  thou  ever  see  thy  friend  asleep  ?  Wert  thou 
not  terrified  at  thy  friend  looking  like  that  ?  O  my 
friend,  man  is  a  something  that  shall  be  surpassed. 

In  finding  out  and  being  silent  the  friend  shall  be 
master :  thou  must  not  wish  to  see  everything.  Thy 


dream  shall  betray  unto  thee  what  thy  friend  doth 
when  he  is  awake. 

Let  a  finding  out  be  thy  sympathy  :  in  order  that 
first  thou  mayest  know  whether  thy  friend  seeketh 
sympathy.  Perhaps  in  thee  he  liketh  the  unmoved 
eye  and  the  look  of  eternity. 

Let  thy  sympathy  with  thy  friend  be  hidden  under 
a  hard  shell,  on  it  thou  shalt  break  thy  tooth  in 
biting.  Thus  thy  sympathy  will  have  delicacy  and 

Art  thou  unto  thy  friend  fresh  air  and  solitude  and 
bread  and  medicine  ?  Many  a  one  cannot  loose  his 
own  chains  and  yet  is  a  saviour  unto  his  friend. 

Art  thou  a  slave  ?  If  thou  be,  thou  canst  not  be 
a  friend.  Art  thou  a  tyrant  ?  If  thou  be,  thou  canst 
not  have  friends. 

Far  too  long  a  slave  and  a  tyrant  have  been 
hidden  in  woman.  Therefore  woman  is  not  yet 
capable  of  friendship  :  she  knoweth  love  only. 

In  the  love  of  woman  there  is  injustice  and  blind- 
ness unto  everything  she  loveth  not.  And  even  in  the 
knowing  love  of  woman  there  is  still,  along  with  light, 
surprise  and  lightning  at  night. 

Yet  woman  is  not  capable  of  friendship:  women 
are  still  always  cats  and  birds.  Or,  in  the  best  case, 

Yet  woman  is  not  capable  of  friendship.  But  say, 
ye  men,  which  of  you  is  capable  of  friendship  ? 


Oh !  for  your  poverty,  ye  men,  and  your  avarice 
of  soul  !  As  much  as  ye  give  unto  your  friend,  I 
will  give  unto  mine  enemy,  and  will  not  become  poorer 

There  is  comradeship  :  oh,  that  there  were  friend- 
ship ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Many  lands  were  seen  by  Zarathustra,  and  many 
peoples :  thus  he  discovered  the  good  and  evil  of  many 
peoples.  No  greater  power  on  earth  was  found  by 
Zarathustra  than  good  and  evil. 

No  people  could  live  that  did  not,  in  the  first  place, 
value.  If  it  would  maintain  itself,  it  must  not  value  as 
its  neighbour  doth. 

Much  that  one  people  called  good  another  called 
scorn  and  dishonour  :  thus  I  found  it.  Much  I  found 
named  evil  here,  adored  there  with  the  honours  of 
the  purple. 

Never  did  one  neighbour  understand  the  other  :  his 
soul  was  ever  astonished  at  his  neighbour's  self-decep- 
tion and  wickedness. 

A  table  of  values  hangeth  over  each  people.  Behold, 
it  is  the  table  of  its  resignations  ;  behold,  it  is  the 
voice  of  its  will  unto  power. 

That  is  laudable  which  is  reckoned  hard  ;  what  is 
indispensable  and  hard  is  named  good ;  and  that  which 


freeth  from  the  extremest  need,  the  rare,  the  hardest, 
— that  is  praised  as  holy. 

Whatever  enableth  a  people  to  dominate  and  conquer 
and  shine,  unto  the  horror  and  envy  of  its  neighbour, 
that  is  regarded  as  the  high,  the  first,  the  standard, 
the  significance  of  all  things. 

Verily,  my  brother,  if  thou  once  recognisedst  a 
people's  need  and  land  and  sky  and  neighbour,  thou 
mightest  easily  find  out  the  law  of  its  resignations, 
and  why  it  climbeth  on  this  ladder  unto  its  hope. 

'  Thou  shalt  ever  be  the  first,  standing  out  from 
the  others :  no  one  shall  be  loved  by  thy  jealous 
soul  unless  thy  friend : '  that  saying  thrilled  the  soul 
of  the  Greek :  then  went  he  upon  the  path  of  his 

'To  speak  the  truth  and  handle  bow  and  arrow 
well : '  that  was  at  once  loved  and  reckoned  hard  by 
the  people  from  whom  my  name  cometh — the  name 
which  is  at  once  dear  and  hard  unto  me. 

'To  honour  father  and  mother,  and  make  their 
will  thine  unto  the  heart  of  thy  heart : '  this  table  of 
resignations  was  hung  up  by  another  people  which 
thereby  became  mighty  and  eternal. 

'  To  keep  faith  and,  for  the  sake  of  faith,  risk  honour 
and  blood  in  evil  and  dangerous  affairs : '  thus  teach- 
ing itself  another  people  conquered  itself,  and  thus 
conquering  became  pregnant  and  heavy  with  great 


Verily,  men  have  made  for  themselves  all  their 
good  and  evil.  Verily,  they  did  not  take  it,  they  did  not 
find  it,  it  did  not  come  down  as  a  voice  from  heaven. 

Values  were  only  assigned  unto  things  by  man  in 
order  to  maintain  himself — he  it  was  who  gave  signi- 
ficance to  things,  a  human  significance.  Therefore  he 
calleth  himself  '  man,'  i.  e.,  the  valuing  one. 

Valuing  is  creating  :  listen,  ye  who  are  creative  ! 
To  value  is  the  treasure  and  jewel  among  all  things 

Only  by  valuing  is  there  value,  without  valuing 
the  nut  of  existence  would  be  hollow.  Listen,  ye  who 
are  creative  ! 

Change  of  values, — t.  e.,  change  of  creators  !  He 
who  is  obliged  to  be  a  creator  ever  destroyeth. 

At  first  people  only  were  creators,  and  not  till 
long  afterwards  individuals  ;  verily,  the  individual  him- 
self is  the  latest  creation. 

Once  peoples  hung  up  above  them  a  table  of  good. 
Love  that  seeketh  to  rule,  and  love  that  seeketh  to 
obey,  together  created  such  tables. 

Older  than  the  pleasure  received  from  the  I  is  the 
pleasure  received  from  the  herd  :  and  as  long  as  the 
good  conscience  is  called  herd,  only  the  bad  con- 
science saith  :  '  I.' 

Verily,  that  cunning,  unloving  I  that  seeketh  its 
own  profit  in  the  profit  of  many :  that  is  *  not  the 
origin  of  the  herd,  but  its  destruction. 


The  loving  and  creative,  they  have  always  been 
the  creators  of  good  and  evil.  The  flame  of  love  and 
the  flame  of  wrath  glow  in  the  names  of  all  virtues. 

Many  lands  were  seen  by  Zarathustra,  and  many 
peoples :  no  greater  power  was  found  on  earth  by 
Zarathustra  than  the  works  of  the  loving  :  good  and 
evil  are  their  names. 

Verily,  a  monster  is  this  power  of  praising  and 
blaming.  Say,  brethren,  who  will  overthrow  it  ?  Who 
will  cast  the  fetters  over  its  thousand  necks  ? 

A  thousand  goals  have  existed  hitherto,  for  a 
thousand  peoples  existed.  But  the  fetter  of  the  thou- 
sand necks  is  lacking,  the  one  goal  is  lacking.  Hu- 
manity hath  no  goal  yet. 

But  tell  me,  I  pray,  my  brethren :  if  the  goal  be 
lacking  to  humanity,  is  not  humanity  itself  lacking  ?  " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


Ye  throng  round  your  neighbour  and  have  fine 
words  for  that.  But  I  tell  you,  your  love  for  your  neigh- 
bour is  your  bad  love  for  yourselves. 

Ye  flee  from  yourselves  unto  your  neighbour  and 
would  fain  make  a  virtue  thereof;  but  I  see  through 
your  "  unselfishness." 

The  thou  is  older  than  the  I ;  the  thou  hath  been 
proclaimed  holy,  but  the  I  not  yet ;  man  thus  thrusteth 
himself  upon  his  neighbour. 

Do  I  counsel  you  to  love  your  neighbour?  I  rather 
counsel  you  to  flee  from  your  neighbour  and  to  love 
the  most  remote. 

Love  unto  the  most  remote  future  man  is  higher 
than  love  unto  your  neighbour.  And  I  consider  love 
unto  things  and  ghosts  to  be  higher  than  love  unto 

This  ghost  which  marcheth  before  thee,  my  brother, 
is  more  beautiful  than  thou  art.  Why  dost  thou  not 
give  him  thy  flesh  and  thy  bones  ?  Thou  art  afraid 
and  fleest  unto  thy  neighbour. 



Unable  to  endure  yourselves  and  not  loving  your- 
selves enough  :  you  seek  to  wheedle  your  neighbour 
into  loving  you  and  thus  to  gild  you  with  his  error. 

Would  that  ye  could  not  endure  any  kind  of  your 
neighbours  and  their  neighbours ;  were  that  so  ye 
would  need  to  create  your  friend  and  his  enthusiastic 
heart  out  of  yourselves. 

Ye  invite  a  witness,  if  ye  wish  to  speak  well  of 
yourselves,  and  having  wheedled  him  into  thinking 
well  of  you,  ye  think  well  of  yourselves  also. 

Not  only  doth  he  lie  who  speaketh  contrary  to  his 

knowledge,  but   still  more  he  who  speaketh  contrary 

to  his  not-knowledge.     Thus  ye   speak   of  yourselves 

.    in  company  and  deceive  your  neighbour  as  yourselves. 

Thus  saith  the  fool :  "  Intercourse  with  men  spoileth 
character,  especially  if  ye  have  none." 

One  goeth  unto  the  neighbour  because  he  seeketh 
himself,  another  because  he  wisheth  to  lose  himself. 
Your  bad  love  for  yourselves  maketh  for  yourselves 
a  prison  out  of  solitude. 

It  is  the  more  remote  who  pay  for  your  love 
unto  your  neighbour  ;  and  whenever  there  are  five  of 
you  together  the  sixth  must  die. 

I  like  not  your  festivals :  I  have  found  there  too  many 
actors,  and  the  spectators  also  often  behaved  like  actors. 

I  teach  you  not  the  neighbour,  but  the  friend.  Let 
the  friend  be  for  you  the  festival  of  earth  and  a  fore- 
taste of  beyond-man. 


I  teach  you  the  friend  and  his  too-full  heart.  But 
one  must  know  how  to  be  a  sponge,  if  one  would  be 
loved  by  too-full  hearts. 

I  teach  you  the  friend  in  whom  there  standeth  the 
world  finished,  a  husk  of  the  good, — the  creative  friend 
who  hath  ever  a  finished  world  in  his  gift. 

And  as,  for  him,  the  world  hath  unrolled  itself  so 
it  rolleth  itself  up  again  in  rings — being  the  growth  of 
good  out  of  evil,  the  growth  of  purposes  out  of  chance. 

Let  the  future  and  the  most  remote  be  for  thee 
the  cause  of  thy  to-day  :  in  thy  friend  thou  shalt  love 
beyond-man  as  thy  cause. 

My  brethren,  I  counsel  you  not  to  love  your  neigh- 
bour, I  counsel  you  to  love  those  who  are  the  most 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 



"  Wilt  thou,  my  'brother,  go  into  solitude  ?  Wilt 
thou  seek  the  way  unto  thyself?  Tarry  a  while  and 
listen  unto  me. 

"  He  who  seeketh  is  easily  lost  himself.  All  soli- 
tude is  a  crime,"  thus  say  the  herd.  And  for  a 
long  time  thyself  wert  of  the  herd. 

The  voice  of  the  herd  will  sound  even  within  thee. 
And  whenever  thou  sayest :  "I  no  longer  have  the 
same  conscience  with  you,"  it  will  be  a  grief  and 

Behold,  that  pain  itself  was  born  of  the  same 
conscience.  And  the  last  gleam  of  that  conscience  still 
gloweth  over  thy  woe. 

But  wilt  thou  go  the  way  of  thy  woe  which  is 
the  way  unto  thyself?  If  so,  show  me  thy  right  and 
thy  power  so  to  do  ! 

Art  thou  a  new  power  and  a  new  right  ?  A  prime 
motor  ?  A  wheel  self-rolling  ?  Canst  thou  also  compel 
stars  to  circle  round  thee  ? 


Alas,  there  is  much  lust  for  height !  there  are  so 
many  throes  of  the  ambitious  !  Show  me  that  thou 
art  not  of  those  lustful  or  ambitious  ! 

Alas,  there  are  so  many  great  thoughts  which  are 
no  better  than  bellows  :  they  inflate  things  and  then 
make  them  emptier  than  ever. 

Thou  callest  thyself  free  ?  I  wish  to  hear  thy 
dominating  thought,  not  that  thou  hast  escaped  a  yoke. 

Art  thou  such  a  one  as  to  be  permitted  to  escape 
a  yoke  ?  Many  there  are  who  threw  away  everything 
they  weare  worth  when  they  threw  away  their  servitude. 

Free  from  what  ?  What  doth  that  concern  Zara- 
thustra  ?  Clearly  thine  eye  shall  answer  :  free  for  what  ? 

Canst  thou  give  thyself  thine  evil  and  thy  good, 
hanging  thy  will  above  thee  as  a  law  ?  Canst  thou  be 
thine  own  judge  and  the  avenger  of  thine  own  law  ? 

Terrible  it  is  to  be  alone  with  the  judge  and  avenger 
of  one's  own  law.  Thus  a  star  is  cast  out  into  the 
void  and  into  the  icy  breath  of  solitude. 

To-day  thou  still  sufferest  from  the  many,  thou  : 
to-day  thou  hast  still  thy  courage  and  thy  hopes  entire. 

But  one  day  loneliness  will  weary  thee,  one  day 
thy  pride  will  writhe  and  thy  courage  gnash  its  teeth. 
One  day  thou  wilt  cry  :  "  I  am  alone." 

One  day  thou  wilt  see  no  longer  what  is  high  for 
thee,  and  much  too  close  what  is  low  for  thee  ;  and 
what  is  sublime  for  thee  will  make  thee  afraid  as  if 
it  were  a  ghost.  One  day  thou  wilt  cry  :  "  All  is  false." 


There  are  feelings  which  tend  to  slay  the  lonely 
one  ;  if  they  do  not  succeed  they  must  themselves  die  ! 
But  art  thou  able  to  be  a  murderer  ? 

Knowest  thou,  my  brother,  the  word  "  contempt  ?  " 
And  the  agony  it  is  for  thy  justice  to  be  just  unto 
those  who  despise  thee  ? 

Thou  compellest  many  to  relearn  about  thee  ;  that 
is  sternly  set  down  unto  thine  account  by  them.  Thy 
drawing  near  unto  them  and  yet  passing  they  will 
never  pardon. 

Thou  goest  beyond  them  :  the  higher  thou  risest, 
the  smaller  thou  appearest  unto  the  eye  of  envy.  But 
he  who  flieth  is  hated  the  most. 

"  How  could  ye  be  just  unto  me  ! "  thou  hast  to 
say — "I  choose  your  injustice  as  my  portion." 

Injustice  and  dirt  are  thrown  after  the  lonely  one  ; 
but,  my  brother,  if  thou  wouldst  be  a  star,  thou  must 
shine  unto  them  none  the  less  ! 

Beware  of  the  good  and  just !  They  would  fain 
crucify  those  who  invent  their  own  standard  of  virtue, 
—  they  hate  the  lonely  one. 

Beware  also  of  sacred  simplicity  !  For  it,  nothing 
is  sacred  that  is  not  simple  ;  it  liketh  to  play  with 
the  fire  — of  the  stake. 

And    beware    of   the    attacks    of  thy    love  !      Too 

quickly  the   lonely  one   stretch eth   out  his  hand  unto 

him  whom  he  meeteth. 

Unto  some  folk  thou  shouldst  not  give  thy  hand, 


but  only  thy  paw,  and  I  would  that  thy  paw  might 
have  claws. 

But  the  worst  enemy  thou  canst  meet  will  always 
be  thyself ;  thou  waylayest  thyself  in  caves  and  forests. 

O  lonely  one,  thou  goest  the  way  unto  thyself ! 
And  thy  way  leadeth  past  thyself  and  thy  seven  devils ! 

As  for  thee  thou  wilt  be  a  heretic,  witch,  fortune- 
teller, fool,  sceptic,  unholy  one,  villain. 

Thou  must  be  ready  to  burn  thyself  in  thine  own 
flame  :  how  canst  thou  become  new,  if  thou  hast  not 
first  become  ashes  ! 

O  lonely  one,  thou  goest  the  way  of  the  creator  : 
thou  wilt  create  for  thyself  a  God  out  of  thy  seven 
devils  ! 

O  lonely  one,  thou  goest  the  way  of  the  loving 
one  :  loving  thyself  thou  despisest  thyself  as  only  the 
loving  do. 

The  loving  one  will  create  because  he  despiseth  ! 
What  knoweth  he  of  love  whose  lot  it  hath  not  been 
to  despise  just  what  he  loved  ! 

My  brother,  go  into  thy  solitude  with  thy  love 
and  thy  creating  ;  and  justice  will  not  haltingly  follow 
thee  until  long  after. 

My  brother,  go  into  thy  solitude  with  my  tears. 
I  love  him  who  willeth  the  creating  of  something  beyond 
himself  and  thus  perisheth."- 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Why  stealest  thou  so  timidly  through  the  dawn, 
Zarathustra  ?  and  what  hidest  thou  so  carefully  under 
thy  mantle  ? 

Is  it  a  treasure  that  thou  hast  been  given  ?  Or 
a  child  born  unto  thee?  Or  dost  thou  now  go  thyself 
in  the  ways  of  thieves,  thou  friend  of  evil  ?  " — 

"  Verily,  my  brother  ! "  said  Zarathustra,  "  it  is  a 
treasure  that  I  have  been  given  :  a  little  truth  it  is  I 

But  it  is  unruly  like  a  little  child  ;  and  if  I  hold 
not  its  mouth,  it  bawleth  as  loud  as  it  can. 

When  I  went  on  my  way  alone  at  the  hour  of 
sunset  this  day  I  met  an  old  little  woman  who  thus 
spake  unto  my  soul : — 

"Much  hath  Zarathustra  said  unto  us  women,  but 
never  hath  he  spoken  unto  us  of  woman." 

And  I  answered  her  :  "  Of  woman  one  must  speak 
unto  men  only." 

"  Speak  also  unto  me  of  woman,"  she  said  ;  "  I  am 
old  enough  to  forget  it  at  once." 


And  I  assenting  thus  spake  unto  the  old  little 
woman  : — 

"Everything  in  woman  is  a  riddle,  and  everything 
in  woman  hath  one  answer :  its  name  is  child-bearing. 

Man  is  for  woman  a  means  :  the  end  is  always 
the  child.  But  what  is  woman  for  man  ? 

Two  things  are  wanted  by  the  true  man  :  danger 
and  play.  Therefore  he  seeketh  woman  as  the  most 
dangerous  toy. 

Man  shall  be  educated  for  war,  and  woman  for 
the  recreation  of  the  warrior.  Everything  else  is  folly. 

Over-sweet  fruits — the  warrior  liketh  not.  There- 
fore he  liketh  woman  ;  bitter  is  even  the  sweetest 

Woman  understandeth  children  better  than  man 
doth  ;  but  man  is  more  childlike  than  woman. 

In  the  true  man  a  child  is  hidden  that  seeketh  to 
play.  Up,  ye  women,  reveal  the  child  in  man  ! 

Let  woman  be  a  toy  pure  and  delicate  like  a  jewel, 
illuminated  by  the  virtues  of  a  world  which  hath  not 
yet  come. 

Let  a  ray  of  starlight  shine  in  your  love  !  Let 
your  hope  be  called  :  "  Would  that  I  might  give  birth 
to  beyond-man  ! " 

Let  bravery  be  in  your  love  !  With  your  love  ye 
shall  attack  him  who  inspireth  you  with  awe. 

Let  your  honour  be  in  your  love  !  Little  else 
doth  woman  understand  of  honour.  But  let  it  be 


your  honour  ever  to  love  more  than  ye  are  loved, 
and'  never  to  be  the  second. 

Let  man  fear  woman  when  she  loveth  :  then  she 
sacrificeth  anything,  and  nothing  else  hath  value 
for  her. 

Let  man  fear  woman  when  she  hateth  :  for  in  the 
heart  of  their  heart,  man  is  only  evil,  but  woman  is  base. 

Whom  doth  woman  hate  the  most  ? — Thus  spake 
the  iron  unto  the  loadstone  :  "  I  hate  thee  most  be- 
cause thou  attractest,  but  art  not  strong  enough  to 
draw  unto  thee." 

Man's  happiness  is :  "I  will."  Woman's  happiness 
is  :  "  He  will." 

"  Behold,  this  moment  the  world  hath  become  per- 
fect ! " — thus  thinketh  every  woman,  when  she  obeyeth 
from  sheer  love. 

And  woman  must  obey  and  find  a  depth  for  her 
surface.  Surface  is  woman's  mood,  a  foam  driven  to 
and  fro  over  a  shallow  water. 

But  man's  mood  is  deep,  his  stream  roareth  in 
underground  caves :  woman  divineth  his  power,  but 
understandeth  it  not."- 

Then  the  little  old  woman  answered  me  :  "  Many 
fine  things  hath  Zarathustra  said,  and  especially  for 
those  who  are  young  enough. 

Strange  it  is,  that  Zarathustra  little  knoweth  women, 
and  yet  is  right  regarding  them  !  Is  that  because 
with  woman  nothing  is  impossible  ? 


And  now  take  as  my  thanks  a  little  truth.  For 
I  am  old  enough  for  that. 

Wrap  it  up  and  keep  its  mouth  shut :  or  it  will 
bawl  as  loud  as  it  can,  that  little  truth." 

"  Give  me,  woman,  thy  little  truth,"  I  said,  and 
thus  spake  the  little  old  woman : — 

"  Thou  goest  to  women  ?  Remember  thy  whip  !  "- 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


One  day  Zarathustra  had  fallen  asleep  under  a  fig- 
tree,  it  was  hot,  and  he  had  folded  his  arms  over  his 
face.  Then  an  adder  came  and  bit  his  neck  so  that 
Zarathustra  cried  out  with  pain.  Taking  his  arm 
from  his  face  he  looked  at  the  serpent :  which  recog- 
nising Zarathustra's  eyes  tried  awkwardly  to  wriggle 
away.  "  Not  so,"  said  Zarathustra  ;  "  thou  hast  not  yet 
accepted  my  thanks  !  Thou  wakedst  me  in  due  time, 
my  way  is  long."  "  Thy  way  is  short "  said  the  adder 
sadly;  "my  poison  killeth."  Zarathustra  smiled  :  "When 
did  ever  a  dragon  die  from  a  serpent's  poison  ? "  he 
said.  "  But  take  back  thy  poison  !  Thou  art  not  rich 
enough  to  make  me  a  gift  of  it."  Then  the  adder 
again  fell  upon  his  neck  and  licked  his  wound. 

Zarathustra  once  telling  this  unto  his  disciples  they 
asked :  "  And  what,  O  Zarathustra,  is  the  moral  of 
thy  tale  ?  "  Zarathustra  thus  answered  : — 

"The  destroyer  of  moral  I  am  called  by  the  good 
and  just :  my  tale  is  immoral. 


But  if  ye  have  an  enemy  return  not  good  for  evil  : 
for  that  would  make  him  ashamed.  But  prove  that  he 
hath  done  you  a  good  turn. 

And  rather  be  angry  than  make  him  ashamed. 
And  if  ye  be  cursed  I  would  have  you  not  bless. 
Rather  curse  a  little  also  ! 

And  if  a  great  wrong  be  done  unto  you  straight- 
way do  five  small  ones  in  return  !  A  horrible  sight 
is  he  who  is  oppressed  by  having  done  wrong  un- 

Know  ye  that  ?  Divided  wrong  is  half  right.  And 
he  who  can  bear  it,  is  to  take  the  wrong  on  him- 

A  small  revenge  is  more  human  than  no  revenge 
at  all.  And  if  punishment  be  not,  at  once,  a  right 
and  an  honour  of  the  offender,  I  like  not  your  punish- 

It  is  higher  to  own  one's  self  wrong  than  to  carry 
the  point,  especially  if  one  be  right.  Only  one  must 
be  rich  enough  for  that. 

I  like  not  your  cold  justice  ;  from  the  eye  of  your 
judges  the  executioner  and  his  cold  iron  ever  gaze. 

Say,  where  is  justice  to  be  found  which  is  love 
with  seeing  eyes  ? 

Arise  !  invent  that  love  which  not  only  beareth  all 
punishment,  but  all  guilt  as  well ! 

Arise  !  invent  that  justice  which  acquitteth  every- 
body except  the  judge  ! 


Desire  ye  to  hear  this  also  ?  In  him  who  wisheth 
to  be  just  from  the  heart  even  a  lie  becometh  a  hu- 

But  how  could  I  be  just  from  the  heart  ?  How 
could  I  give  unto  each  what  is  his  ?  Let  this  be 
enough  for  me  :  I  give  unto  each  what  is  mine. 

Lastly,  my  brethren,  beware  of  doing  wrong  unto 
any  hermit !  How  could  a  hermit  forget  ?  How  could 
he  retaliate  ? 

Like  a  deep  well  is  a  hermit.  It  is  easy  to  throw 
a  stone  into  it.  But  when  it  hath  sunk  unto  the 
bottom  who  will  get  it  out  again  ? 

Beware  of  offending  a  hermit.  But  if  ye  do,  well, 
kill  him  also  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  I  have  a  question  for  thee  alone,  my  brother  :  like 
the  lead  I  heave  that  question  over  into  thy  soul  that 
I  may  know  how  deep  it  is. 

Thou  art  young  and  wishest  for  child  and  marriage. 
But  I  ask  thee  :  art  thou  a  man  who  darest  to  wish 
for  a  child  ? 

Art  thou  the  victorious  one,  the  self-subduer,  the 
commander  of  thy  senses,  the  master  of  thy  virtues  ? 
Thus  I  ask  thee. 

Or,  in  thy  wish,  doth  there  speak  the  animal  or 
necessity  ?  Or  solitude  ?  Or  discord  with  thyself  ? 

I  would  that  thy  victory  and  freedom  were  longing 
for  a  child.  Thou  shalt  build  living  monuments  unto 
thy  victory  and  liberation. 

Thou  shalt  build  beyond  thyself.  But  first  thou  must 
be  built  thyself  square  in  body  and  soul. 

Thou  shalt  not  only  propagate  thyself  but  propa- 
gate thyself  upwards !  Therefore  the  garden  of  marriage 
may  help  thee  ! 

Thou  shalt  create  a  higher  body,  a  prime  motor, 
a  wheel  self-rolling — thou  shalt  create  a  creator. 


Marriage :  thus  I  call  the  will  of  two  to  create 
that  one  which  is  more  than  they  who  created  it.  I 
call  marriage  reverence  unto  each  other  as  unto  those 
who  will  such  a  will. 

Let  this  be  the  significance  and  the  truth  of  thy 
marriage.  But  that  which  the  much-too-many  call 
marriage,  those  superfluous — alas,  what  call  I  that  ? 

Alas  !  that  soul's  poverty  of  two  !  Alas  !  that  soul's 
dirt  of  two  !  Alas  !  that  miserable  ease  of  two ! 

Marriage  they  call  that ;  and  they  say  marriage  is 
made  in  heaven. 

Well,  I  like  it  not,  that  heaven  of  the  superfluous !  Nay, 
I  like  them  not,  those  animals  caught  in  heavenly  nets  ! 

Far  from  me  also  be  the  God  who  cometh  halting 
to  bless  what  he  did  not  join  together. 

Laugh  not  at  such  marriages !  What  child  hath 
not  reason  to  weep  over  its  parents. 

Worthy  and  ripe  for  the  significance  of  earth 
appeared  this  man  unto  me,  but  when  I  saw  his  wife 
earth  seemed  unto  me  a  madhouse. 

Yea,  I  wish  the  earth  would  tremble  in  convulsions 
whenever  a  saint  and  a  goose  couple. 

This  one  went  out  for  truths  like  a  hero  and  at 
last  he  secured  a  little  dressed  up  lie.  He  calleth  it 
his  marriage. 

That  one  was  reserved  in  intercourse  and  chose 
fastidiously.  But  suddenly  he  for  ever  spoiled  his  com- 
pany :  he  calleth  this  his  marriage. 


A  third  one  looked  for  a  servant  with  an  angel's 
virtues.  But  suddenly  he  became  the  servant  of  a 
woman,  and  now  it  would  be  well  if  in  consequence 
he  became  an  angel. 

I  found  all  buyers  careful,  having  cunning  eyes. 
But  even  the  most  cunning  one  buyeth  his  wife  in  a 

Many  short  follies — that  is  what  ye  call  love. 
And  your  marriage  maketh  an  end  of  many  short 
follies — being  one  long  stupidity. 

Your  love  unto  woman,  and  woman's  love  unto 
man  :  alas !  would  it  were  sympathy  with  suffering 
and  veiled  Gods !  But  generally  two  animals  find 
each  other  out. 

But  even  your  best  love  is  but  an  enraptured 
parable  and  a  painful  heat.  It  is  a  torch  that  is  to 
beacon  you  unto  higher  ways. 

One  day  ye  shall  love  beyond  yourselves  !  If  so, 
first  learn  how  to  love.  And  hence  ye  have  had  to 
drink  the  bitter  cup  of  your  love. 

Bitterness  is  in  the  cup  even  of  the  best  love  :  thus 
it  bringeth  longing  for  beyond-man  :  thus  it  bringeth 
thirst  unto  thee,  the  creator  ! 

Thirst  unto  the  creator,  an  arrow  and  longing  for 
beyond-man  :  say,  my  brother,  is  that  thy  will  unto 
marriage  ? 

Holy  I  call  such  a  will  and  such  a  marriage." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Many  die  too  late,  and  some  die  too  early.  Still 
the  doctrine  soundeth  strange :  '  Die  at  the  right 

'  Die  at  the  right  time : '  thus  Zarathustra  teacheth. 

Nay,  he  who  hath  never  lived  at  the  right  time, 
how  could  he  ever  die  at  the  right  time  ?  Would 
that  he  had  never  been  born  ! — Thus  I  counsel  the 

But  even  the  superfluous  put  on  airs  about  their 
dying,  and  even  the  hollowest  nut  wisheth  to  be 

Everyone  taketh  dying  seriously,  and  death  is  not 
yet  a  festival.  Not  yet  have  men  learnt  how  the 
finest  festivals  are  consecrated. 

I  show  you  the  achieving  death,  which,  for  the 
living,  becometh  a  sting  and  a  pledge. 

The  achieving  one  dieth  his  death  victorious,  sur- 
rounded by  hopeful  ones  and  such  as  pledge  them- 


Thus  should  one  learn  to  die  ;  and  there  should 
be  no  festival,  in  which  such  a  dying  one  did  not 
consecrate  the  oaths  of  the  living  ! 

To  die  thus  is  the  best ;  the  second  is  however  to 
die  in  the  battle  and  spend  a  great  soul. 

But  equally  hated  by  the  fighting  one  and  the 
victor  is  your  grinning  death,  which  stealeth  nigh  like 
a  thief  and  yet  cometh  as  a  master. 

I  praise  unto  you  my  death,  free  death,  which 
cometh  because  I  will. 

And  when  shall  I  will  ?  He  who  hath  a  goal 
and  an  heir  wisheth  death  to  come  at  the  right  time 
for  goal  and  heir. 

And  out  of  reverence  for  goal  and  heir  he  will 
hang  up  no  more  withered  wreaths  in  the  sanctuary 
of  life. 

Indeed,  I  would  not  be  like  the  rope-makers.  They 
draw  out  their  cord  longer  and  longer,  going  ever 
backwards  themselves. 

Many  a  one,  besides,  waxeth  too  old  for  his  truths 
and  victories,  a  toothless  mouth  having  no  longer  a 
right  unto  every  truth. 

And  whoever  wisheth  fame  must  in  time  say  fare- 
well unto  honour,  and  exercise  the  difficult  art  of  de- 
parting at  the  right  time. 

One  must  cease  to  be  eaten,  when  one  tasteth  best ; 
they  who  would  be  loved  for  long  know  that. 

There  are  sour  apples  whose  lot  it  is  to  wait  till 



the  last  day  of  autumn.  At  the  same  time  they  wax 
ripe  and  yellow  and  wrinkled. 

With  some  the  heart  groweth  old  first,  with  others 
the  spirit.  And  some  are  old  in  youth  :  but  late  youth 
remaineth  long  youth. 

Unto  many  life  is  a  failure,  a  poisonous  worm  eating 
through  unto  their  heart.  These  ought  to  see  to  it  that 
they  succeed  better  in  dying. 

Many  never  grow  sweet,  but  putrefy  even  in  sum- 
mer. It  is  cowardice  that  maketh  them  stick  unto 
their  branch. 

Much-too-many  live,  and  much-too-long  they  stick 
unto  their  branches.  Would  that  storm  came  to  shake 
from  the  tree  all  that  is  putrid  and  gnawed  by  worms! 

Would  that  preachers  of  swift  death  came  !  They 
would  be  the  proper  storms  to  shake  the  trees  of  life  ! 
But  I  hear  only  slow  death  preached  and  patience 
with  all  that  is  'earthly/ 

Alas  !  ye  preach  patience  with  what  is  earthly  ? 
What  is  earthly  hath  too  much  patience  with  you,  ye 
revilers  ! 

Too  early  died  that  Hebrew  whom  the  preachers 
of  slow  death  revere  :  and  his  dying-too-early  hath 
been  fatal  for  many  since. 

When  Jesus  the  Hebrew  knew  only  the  tears  and 
melancholy  of  the  Hebrew,  together  with  the  hatred 
of  the  good  and  just, — then  a  longing  for  death  sur- 
prised him. 


Would  that  he  had  remained  in  the  desert  and 
far  away  from  the  good  and  just !  Perhaps  he  would 
have  learnt  how  to  live  and  to  love  the  earth — and 
how  to  laugh  besides  ! 

Believe  me,  my  brethren  !  He  died  too  early ; 
he  himself  would  have  revoked  his  doctrine,  had 
he  reached  mine  age  !  Noble  enough  to  revoke  he 
was  ! 

But  he  was  still  unripe.  Unripely  the  youth  loveth, 
and  unripely  also  he  hateth  man  and  earth.  Fettered 
and  heavy  are  still  his  mind  and  the  wings  of  his 

But  in  a  man  there  is  more  of  child  than  in  a 
youth,  and  less  of  melancholy  :  he  better  understandeth 
how  to  manage  death  and  life. 

Free  for  death  and  free  in  death,  a  holy  Nay-sayer, 
when  there  is  no  longer  time  to  say  yea :  thus  he 
understandeth  how  to  manage  death  and  life. 

That  your  dying  may  not  be  a  blasphemy  of  man 
and  earth,  my  friends,  that  is  what  I  ask  from  the 
honey  of  your  soul. 

In  your  dying  your  spirit  and  your  virtue  shall 
glow  on,  like  the  evening-red  round  the  earth  :  or  else 
your  dying  hath  not  succeeded  well. 

Thus  I  would  die  myself,  that  ye  friends  for  my 
sake  may  love  the  earth  more  than  before  ;  and  I 
would  become  dust  again,  in  order  to  have  rest  in 
earth  which  gave  me  birth. 


Of  a  truth,  Zarathustra  had  a  goal,  he  threw  his 
ball :  now,  friends,  be  the  heirs  of  my  goal,  I  throw 
the  golden  ball  unto  you. 

Best  of  all,  my  friends,  I  like  to  see  you  throw 
the  golden  ball !  And  thus  I  wait  for  a  little  while 
on  earth  :  excuse  me  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


Zarathustra  having  taken  leave  of  the  town  unto 
which  his  heart  was  attached  and  whose  name  is : 
the  Cow  of  Many  Colours — many  followed  him  who 
called  themselves  his  disciples,  and  accompanied  him. 
Having  arrived  at  four  crossways,  Zarathustra  told 
them  that  now  he  wished  to  go  alone  ;  for  he  had 
a  liking  for  going  alone.  But  his  disciples  gave  him 
at  parting  a  stick  on  the  golden  handle  of  which 
a  serpent  curled  round  a  sun.  Zarathustra,  pleased 
with  the  stick  and  supporting  himself  with  it,  spake 
thus  unto  his  disciples : 

"  Tell  me  :  how  came  gold  to  be  valued  highest  ? 
Because  it  is  uncommon  and  of  little  use  and  shining 
and  chaste  in  its  splendour  ;  it  ever  spendeth  itself. 

Only  as  an  image  of  the  highest  virtue  gold  came 
to  be  valued  highest.  Goldlike  shineth  the  glance  of 
him  who  giveth.  The  glitter  of  gold  maketh  peace 
between  moon  and  sun. 


Uncommon  is  the  highest  virtue,  and  of  little  use ; 
shining  it  is  and  chaste  in  its  splendour :  a  giving 
virtue  is  the  highest  virtue. 

Verily,  I  believe  I  have  found  you  out,  my  dis- 
ciples :  ye  seek  like  me  after  giving  virtue.  What 
could  ye  have  in  common  with  cats  and  wolves  ? 

Your  thirst  is  to  become  sacrifices  and  gifts  your- 
selves :  hence  it  is  that  ye  thirst  to  heap  all  riches  into 
your  soul. 

Unsatisfied  your  soul  seeketh  after  treasures  and 
trinkets  because  your  virtue  is  ever  unsatisfied  in 
willing  to  give  away. 

Ye  compel  all  things  to  come  unto  you  and  into 
you,  in  order  that  they  may  flow  back  from  your  well 
as  gifts  of  your  love. 

Verily,  such  a  giving  love  must  become  a  robber 
as  regardeth  all  values ;  but  I  call  that  selfishness 
healthy  and  holy. 

There  is  another  selfishness,  a  very  poor  one,  a  starv- 
ing one  which  ever  seeketh  to  steal,  the  selfishness 
of  the  sickly,  sickly  selfishness. 

With  a  thief's  eye  it  looketh  at  all  that  glittereth; 
with  the  craving  of  hunger  it  measureth  him  who 
hath  plenty  to  eat;  and  it  ever  stealeth  round  the 
table  of  givers. 

Disease  speaketh  in  that  craving,  and  invisible 
degeneration ;  of  a  sick  body  speaketh  the  thieflike 
craving  of  that  selfishness. 


Tell  me,  my  brethren :  what  regard  we  as  the  bad 
and  the  worst  thing  ?  Is  it  not  degeneration  f  —And  we 
always  suspect  degeneration  wherever  the  giving  soul 
is  lacking. 

Upwards  goeth  our  way,  from  species  to  beyond- 
species.  But  a  horror  for  us  is  the  degenerating  mind 
which  saith:  'All  for  myself!' 

Upwards  flieth  our  mind:  it  is  an  image  of  our 
body,  an  image  of  an  exaltation.  The  names  of  vir- 
tues are  images  of  such  exaltations. 

Thus  the  body  goeth  through  history, — growing 
and  fighting.  And  the  spirit — what  is  it  unto  the  body  ? 
The  herald,  companion  and  echo  of  its  fights  and 

All  names  of  good  and  evil  are  images:  they  speak 
not  out,  they  only  beckon.  A  fool  he  who  seeketh 
knowledge  from  them! 

My  brethren,  give  heed  unto  each  hour,  in  which 
your  spirit  wisheth  to  speak  in  images:  there  is  the 
origin  of  your  virtue. 

There  your  body  is  exalted  and  risen ;  with  its 
delight  it  ravisheth  the  spirit  so  that  it  becometh 
creative  and  valuing  and  loving  and  benefitting  all 

When  your  heart  overfloweth,  broad  and  full  like 
a  stream,  a  blessing  and  a  danger  for  those  dwelling 
nigh:  there  is  the  origin  of  your  virtue. 

When   ye   are  raised  above  praise  and  blame,  and 


your  will  seeketh  to  command  all  things,  as  the  will 
of  a  loving  one:  there  is  the  origin  of  your  virtue. 

When  ye  despise  what  is  agreeable  and  a  soft  bed, 
and  know  not  how  to  make  your  bed  far  enough  from 
the  effeminate :  there  is  the  origin  of  your  virtue. 

When  ye  will  one  will,  and  that  end  of  all  trouble 
is  called  necessity  by  you :  there  is  the  origin  of  your 

Verily,  a  new  good  and  evil  is  your  virtue — verily, 
a  new  deep  rushing,  and  the  voice  of  a  new  well! 

It  is  power,  that  new  virtue ;  one  dominating  thought 
it  is,  and  round  it  a  cunning  soul:  a  golden  sun,  and 
round  it  the  serpent  of  knowledge." 

Here  Zarathustra  was  silent  a  while  looking  with 
love  upon  his  disciples.  Then  he  continued  to  speak 
thus  with  a  changed  voice. 

"  Remain  faithful  unto  earth,  my  brethren,  with  the 
power  of  your  virtue !  Let  your  giving  love  and  your 
knowledge  serve  the  significance  of  earth !  Thus  I  beg 
and  conjure  you. 

Let  it  not  fly  away  from  what  is  earthly  and  beat 
against  eternal  walls  with  its  wings !  Alas,  so  much 
virtue  hath  ever  gone  astray  in  flying! 

Like  me  lead  back  unto  earth  the  virtue  which 
hath  gone  astray — yea,  back  unto  body  and  life :  that 


it  may  give  its  significance  unto  earth,  a  human  signi- 

Spirit  and  virtue  also  have  hitherto  gone  astray 
and  mistaken  their  goals  in  a  hundred  ways.  Alas, 
in  our  body  now  all  these  illusions  and  mistakes  still 
live.  Body  and  will  they  have  become  there. 

Spirit  and  virtue  also  have  lost  themselves  in 
seeking  and  erring  hitherto.  Yea,  man  hath  been  only 
an  attempt.  Alas,  much  ignorance  and  error  have 
become  body  in  us! 

Not  only  the  reason  of  millenniums — but  also  their 
madness  breaketh  out  in  us.  Dangerous  it  is  to  be 
an  heir. 

Yet  we  fight  step  by  step  with  the  giant  of  chance ; 
over  all  humanity  hitherto  not-sense,  the  lack  of  sense, 
hath  ruled. 

Let  your  spirit  and  your  virtue  serve  the  signi- 
ficance of  earth,  my  brethren ;  and  let  the  value  of  all 
things  be  fixed  anew  by  yourselves!  Therefore  ye 
shall  be  fighters  !  Therefore  ye  shall  be  creators ! 

Knowingly  the  body  purifieth  itself;  attempting 
with  knowledge  it  exalteth  itself;  for  him  who  per- 
ceiveth  all  instincts  are  proclaimed  holy;  the  soul  of 
him  who  is  exalted  waxeth  merry. 

Physician,  heal  thyself;  so  thou  healest  also  thy 
patient.  Let  that  be  his  best  health,  that  he  may  see 
with  his  own  eyes  him  who  hath  made  himself 


A  thousand  paths  there  are  which  have  never  yet 
been  walked,  a  thousand  healths  and  hidden  islands 
of  life.  Unexhausted  and  undiscovered  ever  are  man 
and  the  human  earth. 

Awake  and  listen,  ye  lonely  ones!  From  the 
future  winds  are  coming  with  a  gentle  beating  of 
wings,  and  there  cometh  a  good  message  for  fine 

Ye  lonely  ones  of  to-day,  ye  who  stand  apart, 
ye  shall  one  day  be  a  people:  from  you  who  have 
chosen  yourselves,  a  chosen  people  shall  arise :  and 
from  it  beyond-man. 

Verily,  a  place  of  healing  shall  earth  become ! 
And  already  a  new  odour  lieth  round  it,  an  odour 
which  bringeth  salvation — and  a  new  hope." 


Zarathustra  having  spoken  these  words  was  silent 
like  one  who  hath  not  yet  uttered  his  last  word  ;  a 
long  while  he  doubtfully  balanced  the  stick  in  his 
hand.  At  last  he  spake  thus,  his  voice  having  again 
changed : 

"Alone  I  now  go,  my  disciples!  Ye  go  also,  and 
alone.  I  would  have  it  so. 

Verily,  I  counsel  you:  depart  from  me  and  defend 
yourselves  from  Zarathustra!  And  better  still:  be 
ashamed  of  him.  Perhaps  he  hath  deceived  you. 


The  man  of  perception  must  not  only  be  able  to 
love  his  enemies,  but  also  to  hate  his  friends. 

One  ill  requiteth  one's  teacher  by  always  remaining 
only  his  scholar.  Why  will  ye  not  pluck  at  my 
wreath  ? 

Ye  revere  me ;  but  how  if  your  reverence  one  day 
falleth  down  ?  Beware  of  being  crushed  to  death  by 
a  statue ! 

Ye  say  ye  believe  in  Zarathustra?  But  what  is 
Zarathustra  worth?  Ye  are  my  faithful  ones:  but 
what  are  all  faithful  ones  worth! 

When  ye  had  not  yet  sought  yourselves  ye  found 
me.  Thus  do  all  faithful  ones;  hence  all  belief  is 
worth  so  little. 

Now  I  ask  you  to  lose  me  and  find  yourselves ; 
not  until  all  of  you  have  disowned  me,  shall  I  return 
unto  you. 

Verily,  with  other  eyes,  my  brethren,  I  shall  then 
seek  my  lost  ones;  with  another  love  I  shall  then 
love  you. 

And  one  day  ye  shall  have  become  friends  of  mine 
and  children  of  one  hope:  then  I  shall  be  with  you 
for  a  third  time,  in  order  to  celebrate  with  you  the 
great  noon. 

And  the  great  noon  is  when  man  standeth  in  the 
middle  of  his  course  between  animal  and  beyond-man, 
and  glorifieth  his  way  unto  the  evening  as  his  highest 
hope ;  for  it  is  the  way  unto  a  new  morning. 


Then  he  who  perisheth  will  bless  himself  as  one 
who  goeth  beyond;  and  his  sun  of  knowledge  will 
stand  at  noon. 

'  Dead  are  all  Gods :  now  we  will  that  beyond-man 
live.'  Let  this  be  one  day  your  last  will  at  the 
great  noon!" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


— "  not  until  all  of  you  have  disowned 
me  shall  I  return  unto  you. 

Verily,  "with  other  eyes,  my  brethren, 
I  shall  then  seek  my  lost  ones ;  -with  an- 
other love  I  shall  then  love  you." 

Zarathustra,  I 
Of  Giving   Virtue 


After  this  Zarathustra  went  back  into  the  moun- 
tains and  the  solitude  of  his  cave  and  withdrew  from 
men,  waiting  like  a  sower  who  hath  thrown  out  his 
seed.  But  his  soul  was  filled  with  impatience  and 
longing  for  those  he  loved;  for  ;he  had  still  many 
gifts  for  them.  For  this  is  the  hardest:  to  shut  one's 
open  hand  because  of  love,  and  as  a  giver  to  preserve 
one's  modesty. 

Thus  months  and  years  passed  away  with  the 
lonely  one,  but  his  wisdom  grew,  and  its  abundance 
caused  him  pain. 

But  one  morning  he  awoke  before  dawn,  medi- 
tated long  on  his  couch,  and  at  last  spake  unto  his 

"Why  then  was  I  terrified  in  my  dream  so  that 
I  awoke?  Did  not  a  child  come  unto  me  carrying  a 
looking-glass  ? 

'  O  Zarathustra ' — the  child  said  unto  me — '  look 
at  thyself  in  the  looking-glass  ! ' 



But  when  I  looked  into  the  looking-glass  I  cried 
aloud,  and  my  heart  was  shaken.  For  in  it  I  did  not 
see  myself,  I  saw  a  devil's  grimace  and  scornful 

Verily,  only  too  well  I  understand  the  sign  and 
warning  of  this  dream ;  my  teaching  is  in  danger : 
tares  usurp  the  name  of  wheat. 

Mine  enemies  have  grown  strong  and  have 
distorted  the  face  of  my  teaching,  so  that  my 
dearest  friends  must  be  ashamed  of  the  gifts  I  gave 

My  friends  are  lost;  the  hour  hath  come  for  me  to 
seek  my  lost  ones." 

With  these  words  Zarathustra  started  up,  but  not 
like  one  terrified  seeking  for  air,  on  the  contrary,  like 
a  prophet  and  poet  visited  by  the  spirit.  With  astonish- 
ment his  eagle  and  his  serpent  gazed  upon  him;  for 
a  happiness  to  come  lay  on  his  countenance  like  the 

"What  hath  happened  unto  me,  mine  animals ?"- 
said  Zarathustra.     "Am  I  not  changed!    Did  not  bliss 
come  unto  me  like  a  stormwind? 

Foolish  is  my  happiness,  and  foolish  things  it  will 
say :  too  young  it  is :  have  patience  with  it ! 

Wounded  I  am  by  my  happiness.  All  sufferers 
shall  be  my  physicians! 

Again  I  am  allowed  to  descend  unto  my  friends 
as  well  as  unto  mine  enemies!  Again  Zarathustra  is 


allowed  to   speak   and   give   and  do  his  kindest  unto 
his  dear  friends. 

Mine  impatient  love  floweth  over  in  streams,  down- 
wards towards  east  and  west.  Out  of  silent  mountains 
and  thunderstorms  of  pain  my  soul  rusheth  into  the 

Too  long  have  I  yearned  and  looked  into  the  dis- 
tance; too  long  hath  solitude  possessed  me:  thus  I 
have  got  disaccustomed  to  silence. 

Mouth  I  have  become  all  over,  and  the  brawling 
of  a  brook  rushing  from  high  rocks:  I  will  hurl  my 
speech  into  the  valleys. 

Let  the  stream  of  my  love  rush  into  what  is  pathless ! 
How  should  a  stream  not  at  last  find  its  way  into 
the  ocean! 

It  is  true,  there  is  a  lake  within  me,  hermit-like, 
self- contented ;  but  the  stream  of  my  love  teareth  it 
along  into  the  ocean ! 

New  paths  I  tread,  a  new  speech  cometh  unto  me ; 
like  all  creators  I  have  grown  weary  of  old  tongues. 
My  mind  wisheth  no  more  to  walk  on  worn-out 

Too  slowly  all  speech  runneth  for  me.  Into  thy 
chariot,  O  storm,  I  leap.  And  even  thee  I  will  scourge 
with  my  malignity. 

Like  a  cry  and  a  shouting  of  triumph  I  shall  rush 
over  wide  seas  until  I  find  the  blissful  islands  where 
my  friends  dwell. 



And  mine  enemies  among  them  !  How  I  now 
love  everyone  unto  whom  I  may  speak  !  Even  mine 
enemies  are  part  of  my  bliss. 

And  when  I  mount  my  wildest  horse  my  spear 
always  helpeth  me  best  to  get  on  its  back  ;  it  is  the 
ever  ready  servant  of  my  foot. 

The  spear  which  I  throw  at  mine  enemies  !  How 
grateful  am  I  unto  mine  enemies  that  at  last  I  may 
throw  it ! 

Too  heavily  charged  was  my  cloud :  between  the 
laughters  of  lightnings  I  will  throw  hail-showers  into 
the  depths. 

Powerfully  my  breast  will  heave,  powerfully  it  will 
blow  its  stormblast  over  the  mountains  :  thus  it  will 
relieve  itself. 

Verily,  like  a  storm  my  happiness  and  my  freedom 
come.  But  mine  enemies  shall  believe  that  the  evil 
one  rageth  over  their  heads. 

Yea,  ye  also  will  be  terrified  by  my  wild  wisdom, 
my  friends,  and  perhaps  ye  will  flee  away  along  with 
mine  enemies. 

Oh  !  that  I  were  able  to  tempt  you  back  with  a 
herdsman's  flute  !  Oh  !  that  the  lioness  of  my  wis- 
dom would  learn  how  to  growl  lovingly  !  How  many 
things  we  have  already  learnt  together. 

My  wild  wisdom  became  pregnant  on  lonely  moun- 
tains ;  upon  rugged  stones  she  bore  her  young,  her 


Now  she  runneth  strangely  through  the  hard  desert 
and  seeketh,  and  ever  seeketh  for  soft  grass,  mine 
old  wild  wisdom. 

She  would  fain  bed  her  dearest  on  the  soft  grass 
of  your  hearts,  on  your  love,  my  friends  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  The  figs  fall  from  the  trees,  they  are  good  and 
sweet  ;  and  while  falling  their  red  skin  bursteth.  A 
north  wind  I  am  unto  ripe  figs. 

Thus,  my  friends,  those  precepts  fall  unto  your 
share  like  figs :  now  drink  their  juice  and  their  sweet 
meat !  Autumn  it  is  round  about  and  clear  sky  and 

Behold  what  plenty  is  around  us  !  And  it  is 
beautiful  to  gaze  on  remote  seas  from  the  midst  of 

Once  folk  said  '  God '  when  they  gazed  on  remote 
seas,  now  I  have  taught  you  to  say :  '  Beyond-man.' 

God  is  a  supposition ;  but  I  would  have  your  sup- 
posing reach  no  further  than  your  creative  will. 

Could  ye  create  a  God  ? — Then  be  silent  concern- 
ing all  Gods  !  But  ye  could  very  well  create  beyond- 

Not    yourselves    perhaps,    my   brethren  !      But    ye 


could  create  yourselves  into  fathers  and  fore-fathers 
of  beyond-rnan  :  and  let  this  be  your  best  creating  ! 

God  is  a  supposition  ;  but  I  would  have  your  sup- 
posing limited  by  conceivableness. 

Could  ye  conceive  a  God  ? — But  let  this  be  for 
you  will  unto  truth,  that  all  be  turned  into  something 
conceivable,  visible,  tangible  for  men  !  Ye  should 
mentally  follow  your  own  senses  unto  their  ends. 

And  what  ye  called  world  hath  still  to  be  created 
by  you  :  it  shall  become  your  reason,  your  image, 
your  will,  your  love  itself!  And,  verily,  it  would  be 
for  your  bliss,  ye  perceiving  ones  ! 

How  could  ye  bear  life  without  that  hope,  ye 
perceiving  ones  ?  Ye  could  neither  have  been  born 
into  an  inconceivable,  nor  into  an  unreasonable  world. 

But  let  me  reveal  unto  you  my  heart  entirely,  my 
friends.  If  there  were  Gods,  how  could  I  bear  to  be 
no  God  !  Consequently  there  are  no  Gods. 

True,  I  have  drawn  that  conclusion,  but  now  it 
draweth  me. 

God  is  a  supposition,  but  who  could  drink  all  the 
pain  of  that  supposition  without  dying  ?  Is  the  creator 
to  be  bereaved  of  his  belief,  and  the  eagle  of  his  flight 
into  eagle-distances? 

God  is  a  thought  which  bendeth  all  that  is  straight, 
and  turneth  round  whatever  standeth  still.  How  ? 
Should  time  have  disappeared,  and  all  that  is  perish- 
able be  a  mere  lie  ? 


To  think  this  is  a  whirling  and  giddiness  for  human 
bones  and  a  vomiting  for  the  stomach.  The  giddy-sick- 
ness I  call  it  to  imagine  such  things. 

Evil  I  call  it  and  hostile  unto  human  beings,  all  that 
teaching  of  the  one  thing,  the  full,  the  unmoved,  the 
satisfied,  the  imperishable  ! 

All  that  is  imperishable — is  only  a  simile  !  And 
the  poets  lie  too  much. 

But  for  a  simile  the  best  images  shall  speak  of 
time  and  becoming ;  a  praise  they  shall  be  and  a 
justification  of  all  perishableness  ! 

Creating — that  is  the  great  salvation  from  suffering 
and  an  alleviation  of  life.  But  for  the  existence  of  the 
creator  pain  and  much  transformation  are  necessary. 

Yea,  much  bitter  death  must  be  in  your  life,  ye 
creators  !  Thus  ye  are  advocates  and  justifiers  of  all 

In  order  to  be  the  child  that  is  newly  born,  the 
creator  must  also  be  the  child-bearing  woman  and 
the  pain  of  the  child-bearing  woman. 

Verily,  I  have  gone  my  way  through  an  hundred 
souls  and  through  an  hundred  cradles  and  birth-throes. 
Many  times  have  I  taken  leave  ;  I  know  the  heart- 
breaking last  hours. 

But  thus  willeth  my  creative  will  my  doom.  Or 
to  put  it  more  candidly  :  such  a  doom  is  just  willed 
by  my  will. 

All    that    feeleth   within    me    suffereth    and   is   in 


prison ;  but  my  willing  always  approacheth  me  as 
my  liberator  and  bringer  of  joy. 

Willing  delivereth :  that  is  the  true  doctrine  of 
will  and  freedom — thus  ye  are  taught  by  Zarathustra. 

No-longer-willing,  and  no-longer-valuing,  and  no- 
longer-creating  !  Oh,  that  that  great  weariness  were  for 
ever  far  from  me  ! 

Even  in  perception  I  feel  only  the  lust  of  my  will 
to  procreate  and  grow  ;  and  if  there  be  innocence  in 
my  perception,  it  is  because  there  is  in  it  will  unto 

This  will  enticed  me  away  from  God  and  Gods  ; 
for  what  could  be  created,  if  there  were  Gods  ! 

But  mine  ardent  will  to  create  impelleth  me  unto 
man  ever  anew.  Thus  the  hammer  is  impelled  unto 
the  stone. 

Alas,  ye  men,  in  the  stone  there  sleepeth  for  me 
an  image,  the  image  of  all  mine  images  !  Alas,  that 
it  should  have  to  sleep  in  the  hardest  and  ugliest 
stone  ! 

Now  my  hammer  rageth  cruelly  against  its  prison. 
Pieces  fly  off  from  the  stone :  what  doth  it  concern  me  ? 

I  shall  finish  it.  For  a  shadow  came  unto  me — the 
stillest  and  lightest  of  all  things  once  came  unto  me  ! 

The  beauty  of  beyond-man  came  unto  me  as  a 
shadow.  Alas,  my  brethren  !  What  do  Gods  concern 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"My  friends,  a  mocking  speech  hath  come  unto 
your  friend  :  '  Behold  Zarathustra  !  Doth  he  not  walk 
among  us  as  among  animals  ? ' 

But  it  is  better  said  thus  :  '  The  perceiving  one  walk- 
eth  among  men  as  being  animals.' 

Man  himself  is  called  by  the  perceiving  one  :  the 
animal  with  red  cheeks. 

How  did  he  get  them  ?  Was  it  not  because  he 
had  occasion  so  often  to  be  ashamed  ? 

0  my  friends  !    Thus  speaketh  the  perceiving  one  : 
'  Shame,  shame,  shame,  that  is  the  history  of  man  !  ' 

That  is  why  the  noble  one  maketh  it  his  law  never 
to  make  anybody  ashamed.  He  maketh  it  his  law  to 
be  ashamed  in  presence  of  all  that  suffereth. 

Verily,  I  like  them  not,  the  merciful  who  are 
blessed  in  their  mercy.  Too  much  they  are  lacking  in 
the  sense  of  shame. 

If  I  must  be  pitiful,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  called 
so  ;  and  if  I  am  so,  I  like  to  be  so  at  a  distance. 

1  also  like  to  veil  my  head  and  flee  before  being 
recognised  ;  and  thus  I  ask  you  to  do,  my  friends  ! 


Would  that  my  fate  would  always  lead  across 
my  path  such  as  are  free  from  sorrow  like  you,  and 
such  as  those  with  whom  I  may  share  hope  and  meal 
and  honey. 

Verily,  now  and  then  I  did  something  for  sufferers, 
but  I  always  seemed  unto  myself  to  do  something 
better  when  I  learned  how  to  enjoy  myself  better. 

Since  man  came  into  existence  he  hath  had  too 
little  joy.  That  alone,  my  brethren,  is  our  original  sin  ! 

And  when  we  learn  how  to  have  more  joy  we  best 
get  disaccustomed  to  cause  pain  and  to  invent  pain 
unto  others. 

Therefore  I  wash  my  hand  which  helped  the  suf- 
ferer ;  therefore  I  even  wipe  my  soul. 

For  on  account  of  the  sufferer's  shame  I  was 
ashamed,  when  seeing  him  suffer  ;  and  when  I  helped 
him,  I  strongly  offended  his  pride. 

Great  obligations  do  not  make  grateful  but  revenge- 
ful ;  and  when  a  small  benefit  is  not  forgotten,  it 
*turneth  into  a  gnawing  worm. 

'  Be  shy  of  accepting  !  Distinguish  by  accepting  ! ' 
thus  I  counsel  those  who  have  nothing  to  give  away. 

But  I  am  a  giver :  willingly  I  give,  as  a  friend 
unto  friends.  But  strangers  and  paupers  may  themselves 
pluck  the  fruit  from  my  tree  :  thus  it  causeth  less  shame. 

Beggars  should  be  abolished  utterly  !  Verily,  we 
are  angry  'when  giving  them  anything  and  are  angry 
when  not  giving. 


And  likewise  the  sinners  and  bad  consciences ! 
Believe  me,  my  friends  :  remorse  of  conscience  teacheth 
to  bite. 

But  the  worst  are  petty  thoughts.  Verily,  it  is  still 
better  to  act  wickedly  than  to  think  pettily. 

True  ye  say :  '  The  pleasure  derived  from  petty 
wickedness  saveth  us  many  a  great  wicked  deed.'  But 
here  folk  should  not  try  to  save. 

Like  an  ulcer  is  an  evil  deed  :  it  itcheth  and  scratch- 
eth  and  breaketh  forth, — it  speaketh  honestly. 

'  Behold,  I  am  disease '  saith  the  evil  deed  :  that 
is  its  honesty. 

But  the  petty  thought  resembleth  a  fungus :  it  creep- 
eth  and  cowereth  and  wisheth  to  be  nowhere — until 
the  whole  body  is  rotten  and  withered  with  small  fungi. 

Unto  him  who  is  possessed  by  the  devil  I  say  this 
word  into  his  ear  :  '  It  is  better  for  thee  to  bring  up 
thy  devil.  Even  for  thee  there  is  a  way  unto  great- 
ness ! ' 

Alas,  my  brethren  !  Of  everybody  one  knoweth 
a  little  too  much.  And  many  a  one  becometh  trans- 
parent for  us ;  but  for  that  reason  we  are  by  no 
means  able  to  penetrate  him. 

It  is  difficult  to  live  with  men,  because  silence  is  so 

And  we  are  most  unjust  not  unto  him  who  is  con- 
trary to  our  taste,  but  unto  him  who  doth  not  concern 
us  in  any  way. 


But  if  thou  hast  a  suffering  friend,  be  a  couch  for 
his  suffering,  but  a  hard  bed,  as  it  were,  a  field-bed  : 
thus  thou  wilt  be  of  most  use  for  him. 

And  if  a  friend  doth  wrong  unto  thee,  say :  '  I 
forgive  thee  what  thou  didst  unto  me,  but  that  thou 
didst  so  unto  thyself,  how  could  I  forgive  that  ? ' 

Thus  speaketh  all  great  love  :  it  even  overcometh 
forgiveness  and  pity. 

One  must  keep  fast  one's  heart.  For  if  one  letteth 
it  go,  how  soon  the  head  runneth  away ! 

Alas  !  where  in  the  world  have  greater  follies  hap- 


pened  than  with  the  pitiful  ?  And  what  in  the  world 
hath  done  more  harm  than  the  follies  of  the  pitiful  ? 

Woe  unto  all  loving  ones  who  do  not  possess  an 
elevation  which  is  above  their  pity  ! 

Thus  the  devil  once  said  unto  me :  '  Even  God 
hath  his  own  hell :  that  is  his  love  unto  men.' 

And  recently  I  heard  the  word  said  :  '  God  is  dead  ; 
he  hath  died  of  his  pity  for  men.' 

Beware  of  pity  :  a  heavy  cloud  will  one  day  come 
from  it  for  men.  Verily,  I  understand  about  weather- 
forecasts  ! 

But  remember  this  word  also  :  All  great  love  is  lifted 
above  all  its  pity,  for  it  seeketh  to  create  what  it  loveth  ! 

'  Myself  I  sacrifice  unto  my  love,  and  my  neighbour 
as  myself,'  thus  runneth  the  speech  of  all  creators. 

But  all  creators  are  hard." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


One  day  Zarathustra  made  a  sign  unto  his  disciples 
and  spake  unto  them  these  words  : 

"  Here  are  priests.  And  though  they  are  mine 
enemies,  pass  them  quietly  and  with  sleeping  sword  ! 

Among  them  also  there  are  heroes  ;  many  of  them 
have  suffered  too  much.  Hence  they  try  to  make 
others  suffer. 

Evil  friends  they  are  :  nothing  is  more  revengeful 
than  their  submissiveness.  And  easily  he  defileth  him- 
self who  toucheth  them. 

But  my  blood  is  kindred  with  theirs  ;  I  would  have 
my  blood  honoured  even  in  theirs." 

And  when  they  had  passed,  Zarathustra  was  attack- 
ed by  pain.  And  when  he  had  fought  with  his  pain 
a  little  while,  he  thus  began  to  speak  : 

"I  am  sorry  for  these  priests.  They  are  contrary 
unto  my  taste,  but  that  is  a  small  matter  unto  me 
since  I  am  dwelling  among  men. 

But  I  suffer  and  have  suffered  with  them  :  prisoners 
they  are  for  me,  and  branded  ones.  He  whom  they 
call  Saviour  put  them  into  fetters  : 


Into  the  fetters  of  false  values  and  illusory  words  ! 
Oh,  that  some  one  would  save  them  from  their  Saviour  ! 

Once  when  the  sea  tossed  them  to  and  fro  they 
believed  they  had  landed  on  an  island  ;  but,  behold, 
it  was  a  slumbering  monster  ! 

False  values  and  illusory  words :  these  are  the 
worst  monsters  for  mortals  :  in  them  doom  slumbereth 
and  waiteth  long. 

But  at  last  it  cometh  and  waketh  and  eateth  and 
devoureth  whatever  made  its  tabernacle  upon  it 

Oh,  look  at  the  tabernacles  made  by  these  priests  ! 
Churches  they  call  their  sweetly  smelling  dens. 

Oh,  that  falsified  light,  that  heavy  air !  This  place  where 
the  soul  is — not  allowed  to  fly  upwards  unto  its  height ! 

But  thus  its  faith  commandeth !  '  On  your  knees 
up  the  stairs,  ye  sinners  ! ' 

Verily,  I  would  rather  see  the  shameless  than  the 
sprained  eyes  of  their  shame  and  devotion  ! 

Who  created  for  himself  such  dens  and  stairs  of 
penitence  ?  Was  it  not  such  as  sought  to  hide  them- 
selves and  were  ashamed  of  the  clear  sky  ? 

And  not  until  the  clear  sky  shall  again  look  through 
broken  ceilings  and  down  on  grass  and  red  poppy 
growing  by  broken  walls,  shall  I  again  turn  my  heart 
unto  the  places  of  this  God. 

They  called  God  what  was  opposite  and  painful 
unto  them  :  and,  verily,  there  was  much  of  the  heroic 
in  their  worship  ! 


And  they  did  not  know  how  to  love  their  God 
otherwise  than  by  fixing  man  unto  the  cross. 

As  corpses  they  meant  to  live,  in  black  they  draped 
their  corpse :  even  in  their  words  I  smell  the  evil 
seasoning  of  the  dead-house. 

And  he  who  liveth  nigh  unto  them,  liveth  nigh  unto 
the  black  ponds  from  which  the  toad  singeth  its  song 
in  sweet  melancholy. 

In  order  that  I  might  learn  to  believe  in  their 
saviour  they  ought  to  sing  better  songs,  and  his  disciples 
ought  to  look  saved-like. 

I  would  fain  see  them  naked :  for  beauty  alone 
should  preach  penitence.  But  who  in  the  world  is 
persuaded  by  that  disguised  affliction  ? 

Verily,  even  their  saviours  have  not  come  from 
freedom  and  the  seventh  heaven  of  freedom  !  Verily, 
they  themselves  have  never  walked  on  the  carpets  of 
knowledge  ! 

The  mind  of  these  saviours  consisted  of  voids,  but 
into  every  void  they  had  put  their  illusion,  their  stop- 
gap whom  they  called  God. 

In  their  pity  their  mind  was  drowned,  and  when 
they  swelled,  and  swelled  over  from  pity,  at  the  sur- 
face there  always  swam  a  great  folly. 

Eagerly  and  with  much  crying  they  drove  their 
flock  over  their  wooden  bridge,  as  if  there  were  only 
a  single  bridge  into  the  future!  Verily,  those  herds- 
men also  were  of  the  sheep  ! 


Petty  intellects  and  comprehensive  souls  these  herds- 
men had :  but,  my  brethren,  what  small  territories 
hitherto  have  been  even  the  most  comprehensive  souls  ! 

Signs  of  blood  have  been  written  by  them  on  the 
way  they  went,  and  it  was  taught  by  their  folly  that 
truth  is  proved  by  blood. 

But  blood  is  the  worst  of  all  witnesses  for  truth  ; 
blood  even  poisoneth  the  purest  teaching  and  turneth 
it  into  delusion  and  hatred  of  hearts. 

And  when  a  man  goeth  through  fire  for  his  teach- 
ing— what  is  proved  thereby  ?  Verily,  it  is  more  when 
one's  own  teaching  springeth  from  one's  own  burning. 

A  sultry  heart  and  a  cool  head,  where  these  hap- 
pen to  meet,  the  blusterer  ariseth,  the  '  saviour.' 

Verily,  there  have  been  much  greater  ones  and 
more  highly  born  ones  than  those  whom  folk  call 
saviours,  those  ravishing  blusterers. 

And  ye,  my  brethren,  if  ye  ever  wish  to  find  the 
way  unto  freedom,  ye  must  be  saved  by  much  greater 
ones  than  any  saviours  have  been. 

Never  yet  beyond-man  existed.  I  have  seen  them 
both  naked,  the  greatest  and  the  smallest  man. 

Much  too  like  are  they  still  unto  each  other.  Verily, 
even  the  greatest  one  I  found  to  be — much  too  human ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"With  thunder  and  heavenly  fire-works  one  hath 
to  speak  unto  languid  and  sleeping  senses. 

But  the  voice  of  beauty  speaketh  gently ;  it  stealeth 
only  into  the  sprightliest  souls. 

To-day  my  shield  trembled  and  laughed  gently: 
that  is  the  holy  laughter  and  trembling  of  beauty. 

Over  you,  ye  virtuous,  my  beauty  laughed  to-day. 
And  thus  came  its  voice  unto  me:  'They  wish  to 
be — paid  in  addition ! ' 

Ye  wish  to  be  paid  in  addition,  ye  virtuous!  Ye 
wish  reward  for  virtue,  heaven  for  earths,  and  eternity 
for  your  to-day? 

And  now  ye  are  angry  at  my  teaching  that  there 
is  no  rewarder  and  pay-master.  Nay,  I  do  not  even 
teach  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward. 

Alas !  That  is  my  trouble :  reward  and  punishment 
have  been  deceitfully  put  into  the  foundation  of 
things — and  now  even  into  the  foundation  of  your 
souls,  ye  virtuous! 


But  like  a  boar's  snout  my  word  shall  harrow  the 
foundation  of  your  souls.  I  would  have  you  call  me 
a  plough. 

All  the  secrets  of  your  foundation  shall  be  brought 
unto  light;  and  when  ye  will  lie  in  the  sun  harrowed 
and  crushed,  your  lie  will  be  separated  from  your 

For  this  is  your  truth:  ye  are  too  cleanly  for  the 
filth  of  the  words:  revenge,  punishment,  reward,  re- 

Ye  love  your  virtue  as  the  mother  doth  her  child; 
but  did  anybody  ever  hear  of  a  mother  wishing  to  be 
paid  for  her  love? 

It  is  your  dearest  self,  your  virtue.  The  thirst  of 
the  ring  is  within  you.  To  reach  itself  again,  for  that 
purpose  every  ring  struggleth  and  turneth. 

And  every  work  of  your  virtue  resembleth  a  star 
extinguished.  Its  light  is  still  on  the  way  and  travel- 
leth  on.  When  will  it  have  ceased  to  be  on  the  way? 

Thus  the  light  of  your  virtue  is  still  on  the  way, 
even  when  the  work  hath  been  done.  Be  it  forgotten 
or  dead,  its  beam  of  light  still  liveth  and  travelleth. 

That  your  virtue  is  your  self,  and  not  anything 
strange,  a  skin,  a  mantle:  that  is  the  truth  from  the 
foundation  of  your  soul,  ye  virtuous! 

But  to  be  sure  there  are  men  who  call  the  agony 
under  the  whip  virtue;  and  ye  have  listened  too  much 
unto  their  crying! 



And  there  are  others  who  call  the  putrefaction  of 
their  vices  virtue ;  ~and  when  their  hatred  and  their 
jealousy  for  once  stretch  their  limbs,  their  justice 
awakeneth  and  rubbeth  its  sleepy  eyes. 

And  there  are  others  who  are  drawn  downwards: 
they  are  drawn  by  their  devils.  But  the  deeper  they 
sink  the  more  ardently  gleameth  their  eye  and  the 
desire  for  their  God. 

Alas,  their  crying  also  hath  reached  your  ears,  ye 
virtuous :  '  What  I  am  not,  that,  that  is  for  me  God 
and  virtue ! ' 

And  there  are  others  who  walk  about  heavily  and 
creaking  like  waggons  carrying  stones  downhill.  They 
talk  much  of  dignity  and  virtue, — their  skid  they  call 
virtue ! 

And  there  are  others  who  are  wound  up  like  every 
day  watches ;  they  go  on  ticking  and  wish  that  ticking 
to  be  called  virtue. 

Verily,  these  are  mine  entertainment.  Wherever 
I  find  such  watches  I  shall  wind  them  up  with  my 
mocking;  and  they  shall  even  click  at  that. 

And  others  are  proud  of  their  handful  of  justice, 
and  for  its  sake  commit  outrages  on  ah1  things,  so 
that  the  world  is  drowned  with  their  unjustice. 

Alas  !  How  badly  the  word  '  virtue '  cometh  from 
their  mouth !  And  when  they  say  :  '  I  am  just,'  it 
soundeth  almost  like :  '  I  am  just — revenged  ! ' 

With  their  virtue  they  try  to  scratch  out  the  eyes 


of  their  enemies;  they  only  extol  themselves  in  order 
to  debase  others. 

And  again  there  are  others  who  sit  in  their  mud- 
bath  and  thus  speak  out  of  the  bulrushes :  '  Virtue — 
that  meaneth  to  sit  still  in  the  mud-bath. 

We  bite  nobody  and  go  out  of  the  way  of  him 
who  seeketh  to  bite ;  and  in  all  things  we  have  the 
opinion  we  are  given.' 

And  again  there  are  such  as  love  gestures  and 
think  virtue  is  a  kind  of  gesture. 

Their  knees  always  adore,  and  their  hands  are  a 
praise  of  virtue,  but  their  heart  knoweth  nothing 
of  it. 

And  again  there  are  such  as  deem  it  virtue  to  say: 
'  Virtue  is  necessary ; '  but  in  reality  they  only  believe 
police  to  be  necessary. 

And  many  a  one  who  cannot  see  what  is  sublime 
in  men,  calleth  it  virtue  to  see  too  well  what  is  base 
in  them :  thus  he  calleth  his  evil  eye  virtue. 

And  some  wish  to  be  edified  and  lifted  up,  and 
call  it  virtue;  and  others  wish  to  be  cast  down — and 
call  it  virtue  also. 

And  in  this  way  almost  all  believe  they  share  in 
virtue.  At  any  rate  everybody  would  have  himself  to 
be  an  expert  as  to  '  good '  and  '  evil.' 

Zarathustra  hath  not  come  to  say  unto  all  these 
liars  and  fools  :  '  What  know  ye  of  virtue !  What 
could  ye  know  of  virtue ! ' 


But  that  ye,  my  friends,  may  become  weary  of  the 
old  words  which  ye  have  learnt  from  fools  and  liars. 

Weary  of  the  words  '  reward,'  '  retaliation,'  '  punish- 
ment,' 'revenge  in  justice' — 

Weary  of  saying :  '  That  an  action  is  good,  springeth 
from  its  being  unselfish.' 

Alas,  my  friends  !  That  your  self  be  in  your  action 
as  a  mother  is  in  the  child,  that  shall  be  for  me  your 
word  of  virtue ! 

Verily,  I  have  taken  from  you  perhaps  an  hundred 
words  and  the  dearest  play-things  of  your  virtue ;  and 
now  ye  are  angry  with  me  as  children  are. 

They  played  on  the  seashore, — then  came  a  wave 
and  swept  all  their  toys  away  into  the  depth:  now 
they  cry. 

But  the  same  wave  shall  bring  them  new  play- 
things and  spread  before  them  new  coloured  shells. 

Thus  they  will  be  comforted;  and  like  them  ye 
also,  my  friends,  shall  have  your  comforts — and  new 
coloured  shells ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Life  is  a  well  of  lust ;  but  wherever  the  rabble 
drink  also,  all  wells  are  poisoned. 

I  am  fond  of  all  things  cleanly;  I  like  not  to  see 
the  grinning  mouths  and  the  thirst  of  the  unclean. 

They  have  cast  their  eye  down  into  the  well;  now 
their  repugnant  smile  shineth  up  out  of  the  well. 

The  holy  water  hath  been  poisoned  by  their  con- 
cupiscence ;  and  when  calling  their  foul  dreams  lust 
they  have  poisoned  words  as  well. 

Angry  waxeth  the  flame  when  they  lay  their 
damp  hearts  nigh  the  fire ;  the  spirit  itself  bubbleth  and 
smoketh  wherever  the  rabble  approach  the  fire. 

Sweetish  and  much  too  mellow  waxeth  the  fruit 
in  their  hand;  shaky  and  withered  at  the  top  waxeth 
the  fruit-tree  from  their  look. 

And  many  a  one  who  turned  away  from  life  only 
turned  away  from  the  rabble;  he  cared  not  to  share 
with  them  well  and  fire  and  fruit 

And  many  a  one  who  went  into  the  desert  and 
suffered  from  thirst  with  the  camels,  merely  cared  not 
to  sit  round  the  cistern  with  dirty  camel-drivers. 


And  many  a  one  who  came  along  like  a  destroyer 
and  a  hail-storm  unto  all  corn-fields,  merely  intended 
to  put  his  foot  into  the  jaws  of  the  rabble  and  thus 
stuff  their  throat. 

And  this  was  not  the  bit  which  choked  me  most: 
to  know  that  life  itself  requireth  hostility  and  death 
and  crosses  of  torture ; 

But  once  I  asked  and  was  almost  suffocated  by 
my  question:  'What?  doth  life  also  require  rabble? 

Are  poisoned  wells  required,  and  stinking  fires,  and 
foul  dreams,  and  mites  in  the  bread  of  life  ? ' 

Not  my  hatred  but  my  loathing  gnawed  hungrily 
at  my  life!  Alas,  I  frequently  wearied  of  the  spirit 
when  I  found  the  rabble  also  full  of  spirit  ! 

And  I  turned  my  back  upon  the  rulers,  when  I  saw 
what  is  now  called  ruling :  to  chaffer  and  barter  about 
power — with  the  rabble! 

Among  nations  with  foreign  tongues  I  lived  with 
closed  ears,  in  order  that  the  tongue  of  their  chaffering 
might  remain  unknown  unto  me,  and  their  bartering 
about  power. 

And  holding   my   nose  I  angrily  walked  through 

u  yesterday  and  to-day.    Verily,   after  writing  rabble 

J  J  J  J ' 

c/7  <Ajuiv^t^«.ife?  .badly  smelleth  all  yesterday  and  to-day ! 

Like  a  cripple  who  became  deaf  and  blind  and 
dumb,  thus  I  lived  long  in  order  not  to  live  with  the 
rabble  of  power,  writing,  and  lust. 

With  difficulty  my  mind  went  up  stairs,  and  cau- 


tiously;  alms  of  lust  were  its  refreshments;  for  the 
blind  man,  life  crept  leaning  on  a  stick. 

What  happened  unto  me?  How  did  I  free  my- 
self from  loathing?  How  became  mine  eye  younger? 
How  did  I  reach  in  flying  the  height  where  no 
longer  the  rabble  sit  at  the  well? 

Did  my  very  loathing  give  me  wings  and  powers 
divining  wells?  Verily,  I  had  to  fly  unto  the  very 
highest  to  rediscover  the  well  of  lust ! 

Oh,  I  found  it,  my  brethren !  How  on  the  very 
height  the  well  of  lust  floweth  for  me !  And  there  is 
a  life,  in  the  drinking  of  which  no  rabble  share ! 

Almost  too  violently  for  me  thou  flowest,  well  of 
lust!  And  frequently  thou  emptiest  the  cup  again  by 
trying  to  fill  it! 

And  yet  I  must  learn  to  approach  thee  more 
modestly.  Much  too  violently  my  heart  floweth  to- 
wards thee — 

My  heart  on  which  my  summer  burneth,  the  short, 
hot,  melancholy,  all-too-blessed  summer !  How  doth  my 
summer-heart  long  for  thy  coolness! 

Past  is  the  hesitating  trouble  of  my  spring!  Past 
is  the  wickedness  of  my  flakes  of  snow  in  June ! 
Wholly  I  became  summer  and  a  summer-noon ! 

A  summer  on  the  very  height  with  cold  wells  and 
blessed  stillness!  Oh  come,  my  friends,  that  the  still- 
ness may  become  still  more  blessed! 

For  this  is  our  height  and  our  home.    Too  highly 


and  too  steeply  we  here  stay  for  all  the  impure  and 
their  thirst. 

Just  cast  your  pure  eyes  into  the  well  of  my  lust, 
ye  friends!  How  could  it  become  muddy  therefrom! 
Laughing  with  its  purity  it  shall  receive  you. 

On  the  tree  of  the  future  we  build  our  nest.  Eagles 
are  to  bring  food  with  their  beaks  unto  us  lonely  ones ! 

Verily,  no  food  in  the  eating  of  which  impure  ones 
would  be  allowed  to  share!  They  would  fancy  they 
ate  fire  and  burned  their  mouths  with  it. 

Verily,  here  we  have  no  homes  ready  for  impure 
ones.  Unto  their  bodies  our  happiness  would  mean  a 
cave  of  ice,  and  unto  their  minds  as  well! 

And  like  strong  winds  we  will  live  above  them, 
companions  of  eagles,  companions  of  the  snow,  com- 
panions of  the  sun ;  thus  live  strong  winds. 

And  like  a  wind  I  shall  one  day  blow  amidst 
them  and  take  away  their  breath  with  my  spirit;  thus 
my  future  willeth  it. 

Verily,  a  strong  wind  is  Zarathustra  for  all  low 
lands ;  and  his  enemies  and  everything  that  spitteth 
and  bespattereth  he  counselleth  with  such  advice :  '  Take 
care  to  spit  against  the  wind ! ' ' 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Behold,  this  is  the  cave  of  the  tarantula  !  Wouldst 
thou  see  itself?  Here  hangeth  its  net.  Touch  it  so  as 
to  make  it  tremble. 

There  the  tarantula  cometh  willingly.  Welcome, 
tarantula  !  Black  on  thy  back  is  thy  triangle  and 
mark  ;  besides,  I  know  what  is  in  thy  soul. 

Revenge  is  in  thy  soul :  wherever  thou  bitest,  black 
canker  waxeth  ;  with  revenge  thy  poison  maketh  the 
soul  turn  round. 

Thus  I  speak  unto  you  in  a  parable,  ye  who  make 
the  souls  turn  round,  ye  preachers  of  equality  !  For 
me  ye  are  tarantulae  and  underhand  revengeful  ones  ! 

But  I  shall  bring  unto  the  light  your  hiding  places. 
Therefore  I  laugh  into  your  face  my  laughter  of  the 

Therefore  I  tear  at  your  net  so  that  rage  may 
tempt  you  out  of  your  cave  of  lying  and  your  revenge 
may  jump  forth  from  behind  your  word  'justice.' 

To  save  man  from  revenge,  that  is  for  me  the 
bridge  towards  the  highest  hope,  and  a  rainbow  after 
long  thunderstorms. 


But  the  tarantulas  would  have  it  otherwise.  '  Call 
it  very  justice,  to  fill  the  world  with  the  thunderstorms 
of  our  revenge,'  thus  they  speak  unto  each  other. 

'Revenge  will  we  take,  and  aspersions  will  we 
cast  on  all  who  are  not  like  us' — this  the  tarantulas- 
hearts  pledge  unto  themselves. 

And  'will  unto  equality' — that  itself  shall  in  the 
future  become  the  name  of  virtue  ;  and  we  will  raise 
our  clamour  against  everything  that  hath  power  ! ' 

Ye  preachers  of  equality,  the  tyrant-insanity  of  im- 
potency  thus  crieth  out  of  yourselves  for  '  equality  : ' 
Your  most  secret  tyrant-aspirations  thus  disguise  them- 
selves under  words  of  virtue  ! 

Surly  presumption,  hidden  envy,  perhaps  the  pre- 
sumption and  envy  of  your  fathers  :  as  a  flame  and 
insanity  of  revenge  they  break  forth  from  you. 

What  the  father  kept  close  is  uttered  by  the  son  ; 
and  frequently  I  found  the  son  to  be  the  revealed 
secret  of  the  father. 

They  resemble  the  enthusiastic  ;  but  it  is  not  the 
heart  that  rouseth  their  enthusiasm, — but  revenge. 
And  when  they  grow  sharp  and  cold,  it  is  not  spirit, 
but  envy  that  maketh  them  sharp  and  cold. 

Their  jealousy  even  leadeth  them  into  the  paths 
of  thinkers ;  and  it  is  the  mark  of  their  jealousy 
that  they  ever  go  too  far,  so  that  their  weariness  hath 
at  last  to  lie  down  on  the  snow  to  sleep. 

From  each  of  their  laments   soundeth  revenge,   in 


each  of  their  praises  is  a  sore  ;  and  to  be  judges  ap- 
peareth  unto  them  to  be  bliss. 

But  thus  I  counsel  you,  my  friends  :  '  Mistrust  all 
in  whom  the  impulse  to  punish  is  powerful  ! 

They  are  folk  of  bad  kin  and  descent.  Out  of  their 
countenances  look  the  hang-man  and  blood-hound. 

Mistrust  all  those  who  talk  much  of  their  justice  ! 
Verily,  it  is  not  honey  merely  that  their  souls  lack. 

And  if  they  call  themselves  'the  good  and  just' 
forget  not  that  to  be  Pharisees  they  lack  nothing  but 
— power  ! 

My  friends,  I  like  not  to  be  confounded  with  and 
taken  for  a  wrong  one. 

There  are  some  that  preach  my  doctrine  of  life 
but  at  the  same  time  are  preachers  of  equality  and 

If  they  speak  favourably  of  life  although  they  sit 
in  their  cave,  these  poisonous  spiders,  and  have  turned 
away  frdm  life  :  it  is  because  they  wish  to  cause  pain. 

They  intend  to  cause  pain  unto  those  who  now 
have  power ;  for  with  them  the  sermon  of  death  is 
most  at  home. 

Were  it  otherwise  the  tarantulae  would  teach  other- 
wise. Once  it  was  just  they  who  were  the  best  calum- 
niators of  the  world  and  the  best  burners  of  heretics. 

I  do  not  wish  to  be  confounded  with,  and  mistaken 
for  these  preachers  of  equality.  For  within  me  justice 
saith  :  '  Men  are  not  equal.' 


Neither  shall  they  become  so  !  For  what  would 
be  my  love  for  beyond-man  if  I  spake  otherwise  ? 

On  a  thousand  bridges  and  gang-ways  they  shall 
throng  towards  the  future,  and  ever  more  war  and 
inequality  shall  be  set  up  among  them.  Thus  my  great 
love  maketh  me  speak  ! 

Inventors  of  images  and  ghosts  they  shall  become 
in  their  hostilities,  and  with  their  images  and  ghosts 
they  shall  fight  against  each  other  the  supreme 
battle  ! 

Good  and  evil,  rich  and  poor,  high  and  low,  and 
all  the  names  of  values  :  they  shall  be  weapons  and 
clashing  signs  that  life  always  hath  to  surpass  itself 
again  ! 

Upwards  it  striveth  to  build  itself  with  pillars  and 
stairs,  life  itself:  into  far  distances  it  longeth  to  gaze 
and  outwards  after  blessed  beauties — therefore  it  need- 
eth  height ! 

And  because  it  needeth  height  it  needeth  stairs 
and  contradiction  between  stairs  and  those  rising  be- 
yond them  !  To  rise  striveth  life  and  to  surpass  it- 
self in  rising. 

And  now  behold,  my  friends  !  Here  where  the 
cave  of  the  tarantula  is,  the  ruins  of  an  old  temple 
rise, —  do  ye  gaze  there  with  enlightened  eyes  ! 

Verily,  he  who  here  once  made  his  thoughts  tower 
upwards  in  stone,  like  the  wisest  one  he  knew  the 
secret  of  all  life  ! 


That  even  in  beauty  there  is  fight  and  inequality 
and  war  over  power  and  superiority  :  he  teacheth  it 
unto  us  in  the  clearest  parable. 

How  divinely  here  vaults  and  arches  break  each 
other  in  a  struggle  !  How  with  light  and  shadow  they 
strive  contrary  unto  each  other,  the  divinely  striving 
ones  ! 

Let  our  enemies  also  be  thus  secure  and  beautiful, 
my  friends !  Divinely  we  will  strive  contrary  unto  each 
other  ! 

Alas  !  There  the  tarantula  bit  me,  mine  old  enemy ! 
Divinely,  securely,  and  beautifully  it  bit  my  finger  ! 

'There  must  be  punishment  and  justice' — thus  it 
thinketh.  Not  for  nothing  shall  he  sing  here  songs  in 
honour  of  hostility  ! ' 

Yea,  it  hath  taken  its  revenge  !  And  alas,  now 
it  will  with  revenge  even  make  my  soul  turn  round  ! 

But  that  I  may  not  turn  round,  my  friends,  tie  me 
fast  unto  this  pillar  !  I  will  rather  be  a  stylite  than  a 
whirlpool  of  revengefulness  ! 

Verily,  no  whirlwind  or  eddy-wind  is  Zarathustra  ; 
and  if  he  be  a  dancer,  he  will  never  be  a  tarantula- 
dancer  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


Ye  have  saved  the  folk  and  the  superstition  of 
the  folk,  all  ye  famous  wise  men, — and  not  truth  ! 
And  for  that  very  reason  ye  were  revered. 

And  for  the  same  reason  your  unbelief  was  endur- 
ed because  it  was  a  joke  and  a  round-about-way  unto 
the  folk.  Thus  the  lord  alloweth  his  slaves  to  bustle 
about  and  is  amused  with  their  over-flowing  spirits. 

But  what  is  hated  by  the  folk  as  a  wolf  is  by  the 
dogs  is  the  free  spirit,  the  enemy  of  all  fetters,  the 
not-adorer,  he  who  liveth  in  the  woods. 

To  hunt  him  up  from  his  hiding  place — that  hath 
always  been  called  by  the  folk:  'the  sense  for  what  is 
right : '  against  him  they  still  bait  their  hounds  with 
the  sharpest  teeth. 

'  For  truth  is  there  because  the  folk  are  there  ! 
Alas !  Alas !  for  them  who  seek  ! '  Thus  it  hath  sound- 
ed at  all  times. 

'Ye  tried  to  help  your  people  to  feel  themselves  right 
in  their  reverence.  That  was  what  ye  called  '  will  unto 
truth,'  ye  famous  wise  men  ! 


And  for  ever  your  heart  said  unto  itself :  '  From 
the  folk  I  have  sprung  ;  thence  also  sprang  the  voice 
of  God.' 

Stiff  necks  and  wisdom  ye  always  had,  like  the 
asses,  when  ye  were  the  folk's  advocates. 

And  many  a  mighty  one  who  wished  to  drive 
well  with  the  folk,  harnessed  in  front  of  his  horses — a 
little  ass,  a  famous  wise  man. 

And  now  I  wish,  ye  famous  wise  men,  ye  would 
finally  and  entirely  throw  off  the  hide  of  the  lion  ! 

The  hide  of  the  beast  of  prey,  the  many-coloured, 
and  the  shaggy  hair  of  the  explorer,  seeker,  conqueror  ! 

Alas!  in  order  to  make  me  believe  in  your  'truth- 
fulness,' ye  would  require  first  to  break  your  revering 

Truthful — thus  I  call  him  who  goeth  into  godless 
deserts  and  hath  broken  his  revering  heart. 

In  yellow  sand  burnt  by  the  sun,  it  is  true,  he 
leereth  thirstily  at  the  islands  full  of  wells  where  living 
things  rest  under  dark  trees. 

But  his  thirst  persuadeth  him  not  to  become  like 
these  comfortable  ones ;  for  where  oases  are,  there 
are  idols  also. 

Hungry,  violent,  lonely,  godless — thus  the  lion's 
will  willeth  itself. 

Free  from  the  happiness  of  slaves ;  saved  from 
Gods  and  adorations ;  fearless  and  fear-inspiring ;  great 
and  lonely  ;  this  is  the  will  of  the  truthful  one. 


In  the  desert  at  all  times  the  truthful  have  lived, 
the  free  spirits,  as  -  the  masters  of  the  desert ;  but  in 
towns  live  the  well-fed,  famous  wise  men,  the  draught- 

For,  being  asses,  they  always  draw — the  folk's  cart ! 

Not  that  therefore  I  was  angry  with  them  ;  but 
as  serving  ones  they  are  regarded  by  me,  and  as 
harnessed  ones,  even  if  they  glitter  in  golden  harness. 

For  often  they  were  good  servants  and  worth  their 
hire.  For  thus  speaketh  virtue  :  '  If  thou  must  be  a 
servant,  seek  him  unto  whom  thy  service  will  be  of 
the  most  use  ! 

The  spirit  and  virtue  of  thy  master  shall  grow 
in  that  thou  art  his  servant.  Thus  thou  thyself  wilt 
grow  with  his  spirit  and  his  virtue  ! ' 

And,  verily,  ye  famous  wise  men,  ye  servants  of 
the  folk  !  Ye  yourselves  have  grown  with  the  folk's 
spirit  and  virtue — and  the  folk  through  you  !  I  say 
so  in  your  honour  ! 

But  folk  ye  remain  for  me  even  in  your  virtues, 
folk  with  dim-sighted  eyes, — folk  that  know  not  what 
spirit  is  ! 

Spirit  is  that  life  which  itself  cutteth  into  life.  By 
one's  own  pain  one's  own  knowledge  increaseth ; — 
knew  ye  that  before  ? 

And  the  happiness  of  the  spirit  is  this :  to  be 
anointed  and  consecrated  by  tears  as  a  sacrificial  ani- 
mal ;  — knew  ye  that  before  ? 


And  even  the  blindness  of  the  blind  and  his  seeking 
and  fumbling  shall  bear  witness  as  unto  the  power  of 
the  sun,  into  which  he  gazed  ; — knew  ye  that  before  ? 

And  the  perceiver  shall  learn  to  build  with  mount- 
ains. Little  it  is  for  the  spirit  to  remove  mountains  ; 
— knew  ye  that  before  ? 

Ye  only  see  the  sparks  of  the  spirit ;  ye  know  not 
the  anvil  it  is,  nor  the  cruelty  of  its  hammer  ! 

Verily,  ye  know  not  the  pride  of  the  spirit !  Still 
less  wo.uld  ye  endure  the  modesty  of  the  spirit,  if  it 
once  would  utter  it. 

Neither  have  ye  ever  before  been  allowed  to  throw 
your  spirit  into  a  pit  of  snow.  Ye  are  not  hot  enough 
for  that.  Thus  ye  know  not,  either,  the  ravishings  of 
its  coldness. 

But  in  every  respect  ye  make  yourselves  too  fa- 
miliar with  the  spirit ;  and  ye  have  frequently  made  out 
of  wisdom  an  alms-house  and  infirmary  for  bad  poets. 

Ye  are  not  eagles.  Thus  ye  have  never  experienced 
the  happiness  in  the  terror  of  the  spirit.  And  he  who 
is  not  a  bird  shall  not  dwell  over  abysses. 

Ye  are  for  me  lukewarm ;  but  every  deep  per- 
ception floweth  cold.  As  cold  as  ice  are  the  inner- 
most wells  of  the  spirit, — a  refreshment  for  hot  hands 
and  doers. 

Decently  there  ye  stand,  and  stiff,  and  with  a  stiff 
back,  ye  famous  wise  men  !  Ye  are  not  driven  by 
any  strong  wind  or  will. 


Saw  ye  never  a  sail  go  over  the  sea,  rounded  and 
blown  up  and  trembling  with  the  violence  of  the 
wind  ? 

Like  that  sail,  trembling  with  the  violence  of  the 
spirit,  my  wisdom  goeth  over  the  sea — my  wild  wis- 
dom ! 

But  ye  servants  of  the  folk,  ye  famous  wise  men, 
— how  could  ye  go  with  me  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Night  it  is :  now  talk  louder  all  springing  wells. 
And  my  soul  is  a  springing  well. 

Night  it  is:  only  now  all  songs  of  the  loving 
awake.  And  my  soul  is  the  song  of  a  loving  one. 

Something  never  stilled,  something  never  to  be 
stilled  is  within  me.  It  longeth  to  give  forth  sound. 
A  longing  for  love  is  within  me,  that  itself  speaketh 
the  language  of  love. 

Light  I  am :  would  that  I  were  night !  But  it  is 
my  loneliness,  to  be  girded  round  by  light. 

Oh,  that  I  were  dark  and  like  the  night!  How 
would  I  suck  at  the  breasts  of  light! 

And  I  would  bless  even  you,  ye  small,  sparkling 
stars  and  glow-worms  on  high, — and  be  blessed  by 
your  gifts  of  light! 

But  in  mine  own  light  I  live,  back  into  myself 
I  drink  the  flames  that  break  forth  from  me. 

I  know  not  the  happiness  of  the  receiver.  And 
often  I  dreamt  that  stealing  was  needs  much  sweeter 
than  receiving. 


It  is  my  poverty  that  my  hand  never  resteth  from 
giving ;  it  is  mine  envy  that  I  see  waiting  eyes  and 
the  illuminated  nights  of  longing. 

Oh,  unblessedness  of  all  givers !  Oh,  obscuration  of 
my  sun !  Oh,  longing  for  longing !  Oh,  famished 
voracity  in  the  midst  of  satisfaction ! 

They  take  things  from  me :  but  do  I  touch  their 
soul?  There  is  a  gulf  between  giving  and  taking; 
and  the  smallest  gulf  is  the  most  difficult  to  bridge 

A  hunger  waxeth  out  of  my  beauty :  I  would  cause 
pain  unto  those  unto  whom  I  bring  light ;  I  would  fain 
bereave  those  I  gave  my  gifts  to.  Thus  am  I  hungry 
for  wickedness. 

Taking  back  my  hand  when  another  hand  stretch- 
eth  out  for  it;  hesitating  like  the  waterfall  that  hesi- 
tateth  when  raging  down — thus  am  I  hungry  for 

Such  revenge  is  invented  by  mine  abundance ;  such 
insidiousness  springeth  from  my  loneliness. 

My  happiness  of  giving  died  from  giving;  my  vir- 
tue became  weary  of  itself  from  its  abundance! 

He  who  always  giveth  is  in  danger  to  lose  his 
sense  of  shame;  he  who  always  distributeth  getteth 
hard  swellings  on  his  hand  and  heart  from  distributing. 

Mine  eye  no  longer  floweth  over  from  the  shame 
of  the  begging  ones;  my  hand  hath  become  too  hard 
to  feel  the  trembling  of  full  hands. 


Whither  went  the  tear  of  mine  eye  and  the  down 
of  my  heart  ?  Oh,  solitude  of  all  givers !  Oh,  silence 
of  all  lighters! 

Many  suns  circle  round  in  empty  space:  unto  all 
that  is  dark  they  speak  with  their  light, — unto  me  they 
are  silent. 

Oh,  that  is  the  enmity  of  light  against  what  shineth ! 
Without  pity  it  wandereth  on  its  course. 

Unfair  towards  what  shineth  in  the  heart  of  its 
heart,  cold  towards  suns, — thus  walketh  every  sun. 

Like  the  storm  the  suns  fly  on  their  courses ;  that 
is  their  walking.  They  follow  their  inexorable  will; 
that  is  their  coldness. 

Oh,  it  is  only  ye,  ye  dark  ones,  ye  of  the  night  who 
create  warmth  out  of  what  shineth !  Oh,  it  is  only  ye 
who  drink  milk  and  refreshment  from  the  udders  of  light ! 

Alas,  there  is  ice  round  me,'  my  hand  burneth  it- 
self when  touching  what  is  icy!  Alas,  there  is  thirst 
within  me  that  is  thirsty  for  your  thirst ! 

Night  it  is:  alas,  that  I  must  be  a  light!  And 
a  thirst  for  what  is  of  the  night !  And  solitude ! 

Night  it  is :  now,  like  a  well,  my  longing  breaketh 
forth  from  me.  I  am  longing  for  speech. 

Night  it  is:  now  talk  louder  all  springing  wells. 
And  my  soul  is  a  springing  well. 

Night  it  is :  only  now  all  songs  of  the  loving  awake. 
And  my  soul  is  the  song  of  a  loving  one." 

Thus  sang  Zarathustra. 


One  night  Zarathustra  went  through  the  forest  with 
his  disciples,  and  when  seeking  for  a  well,  behold ! 
he  came  unto  a  green  meadow  which  was  surrounded 
by  trees  and  bushes.  There  girls  danced  together.  As 
soon  as  the  girls  knew  Zarathustra,  they  ceased  to 
dance ;  but  Zarathustra  approached  them  with  a  friendly 
gesture  and  spake  these  words: 

"Cease  not  to  dance,  ye  sweet  girls!  No  spoil-sport 
hath  come  unto  you  with  an  evil  eye,  no  enemy 
of  girls. 

I  am  the  advocate  of  God  in  the  presence  of  the 
devil.  But  he  is  the  spirit  of  gravity.  How  could  I,  ye 
light  ones,  be  an  enemy  unto  divine  dances?  Or 
unto  the  feet  of  girls  with  beautiful  ankles? 

True,  I  am  a  forest  and  a  night  of  dark  trees,  but 
he  who  is  not  afraid  of  my  darkness,  findeth  banks 
full  of  roses  under  my  cypresses. 

And  I  think  he  will  also  find  the  tiny  God  whom 
girls  like  best.  Beside  the  well  he  lieth,  still  with  his 
eyes  shut. 


Verily,  in  broad  daylight  he  fell  asleep,  the  slug- 
gard! Did  he  perhaps  try  to  catch  too  many  butter- 

Be  not  angry  with  me,  ye  beautiful  dancers,  if  I 
chastise  a  little  the  tiny  God !  True,  he  will  probably 
cry  and  weep  ;  but  even  when  weeping  he  causeth 
laughter ! 

And  with  tears  in  his  eyes  shall  he  ask  you  for  a 
dance ;  and  I  myself  shall  sing  a  song  unto  his  dance : 

A  dance-song  and  a  mocking  song  directed  unto 
the  spirit  of  gravity,  my  very  highest  and  most 
powerful  devil,  whom  they  call  'the  master  of  the 

And  this  is  the  song  sung  by  Zarathustra,  when 
Cupid  and  the  girls  danced  together. 

"  Of  late  I  looked  into  thine  eye,  O  life !  And  I 
seemed  unto  myself  to  sink  into  what  is  impenetrable. 

But  thou  drewest  me  out  of  it  with  thy  golden 
hook.  Mockingly  thou  laughedst  when  I  called  thee 

'  This  is  the  speech  of  all  fish,'  saidst  thou.  '  What 
they  do  not  penetrate  is  impenetrable. 

But  I  am  only  changeable  and  wild  and  a  woman 
in  all  respects,  and  not  a  virtuous  one — 

Although  I  am  called  by  you  men  'the  deep  one' 
or  '  the  faithful  one,'  or  the  '  eternal  one '  or  the 
'  mysterious  one.' 


But  ye  men  always  present  us  with  your  own  vir- 
tues. Alas,  ye  virtuous!' 

Thus  she  laughed,  the  incredible  one.  But  I  never 
believe  her  or  her  laughter  when  she  speaketh  badly 
of  herself. 

And  when  I  talked  with  my  wild  wisdom  privately, 
she  told  me  angrily :  '  Thou  wiliest,  thou  desirest,  thou 
lovest ;  therefore  only  thou  praisest  life ! ' 

Then  I  almost  answered  in  anger  and  told  the  truth 
unto  the  angry  one ;  and  one  cannot  answer  more  angrily 
than  when  'telling  the  truth'  unto  one's  wisdom. 

For  thus  things  stand  among  us  three.  I  love 
life  alone  from  the  bottom — and,  verily,  the  most, 
when  I  hate  her! 

But  that  I  am  fond  of  wisdom  and  often  too  fond, 
that  is  because  she  remindeth  me  of  life  very  much ! 

Wisdom  hath  life's  eye,  life's  laughter  and  even 
life's  little  golden  fishing-rod.  Is  it  my  fault  that  the 
two  are  so  like  unto  each  other? 

And  when  once  life  asked  me:  'Wisdom,  who  is 
she  ? ' — I  eagerly  said :  '  Oh  yes !  wisdom  ! 

One  is  thirsty  for  her  and  is  not  satisfied ;  one 
looketh  through  veils  ;  one  catcheth  with  nets. 

Is  she  beautiful?  I  do  not  know.  But  even  the 
oldest  carps  are  lured  by  her. 

Changeable  she  is  and  defiant ;  often  I  saw  her  bite 
her  own  lip  and  pass  the  comb  the  wrong  way  through 
her  hair. 


Perhaps  she  is  wicked  and  deceitful,  and  in  all  re- 
spects a  woman ;  but  just  when  speaking  badly  of 
herself  she  seduceth  most.' 

When  I  told  that  unto  life,  she  laughed  wickedly 
and  shut  her  eyes.  'Say,  of  whom  dost  thou  speak? 
Is  it  of  me  ? 

Suppose  thou  wert  right, — doth  one  say  that  thus 
into  my  face !  But  now  speak  of  thy  wisdom  also ! ' 

Oh  !  and  now  thou  openedst  again  thine  eye,  O 
beloved  life !  And  I  seemed  again  unto  myself  to  sink 
into  what  is  impenetrable." 

Thus  sang  Zarathustra.  But  when  the  dance  was 
finished  and  the  girls  had  departed,  sad  he  grew. 

"The  sun  hath  gone  down  long  ago,"  he  said  at 
last ;  "  the  meadow  is  damp,  and  coolness  ariseth  from 
the  forests. 

An  unknown  something  hovereth  round  me  and  gazeth 
in  deep  thought.  What  ?  Thou  livest  still,  Zarathustra  ? 

Why?  Wherefore?  Wherethrough?  Whither?  Where? 
How?  Is  it  not  folly  still  to  live? 

Alas !  my  friends,  it  is  the  evening  that  thus  out  of 
myself  asketh.  Forgive  me  my  sadness! 

Evening  it  hath  become.  Forgive  me  that  it  hath 
become  evening ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"'Yonder  is  the  island  of  graves,  the  silent.  Yonder 
also  are  the  graves  of  my  youth.  Thither  will  I  carry 
an  evergreen  wreath  of  life.' 

Resolving  this  in  my  heart  I  went  over  the  sea. 

Oh,  ye,  ye  visions  and  apparitions  of  my  youth ! 
Oh,  all  ye  glances  of  love,  ye  divine  moments !  How 
could  ye  die  so  quickly  for  me !  This  day  I  think  of 
you  as  of  my  dead  ones. 

From  your  direction,  my  dearest  dead  ones,  a  sweet 
odour  cometh  unto  me,  an  odour  setting,  free  heart 
and  tears.  Verily,  it  shaketh  and  setteth  free  the  heart 
of  the  lonely  sailor. 

Still  I  am  the  richest  and  he  who  is  to  be  envied 
most — I,  the  loneliest!  For  I  have  had  you,  and  ye 
have  me  still.  Say,  for  whom  as  for  me  have  such 
rose  apples  fallen  from  the  tree? 

Still  I  am  the  heir  and  soil  of  your  love,  flourish- 
ing in  memory  of  you  with  many-coloured  wild- 
growing  virtues,  O  ye  dearest ! 


Alas,  we  had  been  made  to  remain  nigh  unto  each 
other,  ye  kind,  strange  marvels !  And  ye  came  not  unto 
me  and  my  desire,  as  shy  birds  do.  Nay,  ye  came  as 
trusting  ones  unto  a  trusting  one! 

Yea,  like  me,  ye  are  made  for  faithfulness,  and 
for  tender  eternities.  Must  I  now  call  you  after  your 
faithlessness,  ye  divine  glances  and  moments  ?  No  other 
name  have  I  yet  learnt. 

Verily,  too  soon  have  ye  died  for  me,  ye  fugitives. 
Yet  ye  did  not  flee  from  me,  nor  did  I  flee  from  you. 
Innocent  we  are  towards  each  other  in  our  faithless- 

To  kill  me  they  strangled  you,  ye  singing  birds 
of  my  hopes !  Yea,  after  you,  my  dearest  ones,  wicked- 
ness always  shot  arrows — to  hit  my  heart! 

And  it  hath  hit!  For  ye  have  ever  been  what 
was  dearest  unto  me,  my  possession  and  my  being 
possessed.  Therefore  ye  had  to  die  young  and  much 
too  soon ! 

At  the  most  vulnerable  things  I  possessed,  the 
arrow  was  shot.  That  was  after  you  whose  skin  is 
like  down  and  still  more  like  the  smile  that  dieth  by 
a  glance! 

But  this  word  I  shall  say  unto  mine  enemies :  '  What 
is  all  manslaughter  compared  with  what  ye  have 
done  unto  me ! 

More  wicked  things  ye  have  done  unto  me  than 
all  manslaughter  is.  What  was  irrecoverable  for  me 


ye  have  taken  from  me.    Thus  I  say  unto  you,  mine 
enemies ! 

For  ye  have  slain  the  visions  and  dearest  marvels 
of  my  youth!  For  ye  have  taken  from  me  my  play- 
fellows, the  blessed  spirits !  Unto  their  memory  I  lay 
down  this  wreath  and  this  curse. 

This  curse  upon  you,  mine  enemies!  For  ye  have 
made  short  what  was  eternal  for  me;  as  a  sound 
breaketh  off  in  a  cold  night!  Scarcely  as  a  glancing 
of  divine  eyes  it  came  unto  me, — as  a  moment! 

Thus  in  a  good  hour  once  spake  my  purity:  'All 
beings  shah1  be  divine  for  me ! ' 

Then  ye  surprised  me  with  foul  ghosts.  Alas !  Whither 
fled  then  that  good  hour? 

'  All  days  shall  be  holy  unto  me.'  Thus  spake  once 
the  wisdom  of  my  youth, — verily,  the  speech  of  a  gay 
wisdom ! 

But  then  ye,  mine  enemies,  stole  my  nights  and 
sold  them  to  cause  me  sleepless  pain.  Alas  !  Whither 
now  hath  fled  that  gay  wisdom? 

Once  I  desired  lucky  bird-omens.  Then  ye  led  an 
owl-monster  across  my  way,  an  adverse  one.  Alas  ! 
Whither  fled  then  my  tender  desire? 

Once  I  promised  to  renounce  all  loathing.  Then 
ye  changed  into  ulcers  those  who  were  nigh  unto  me 
and  nighest  unto  me.  Alas  !  Whither  fled  then  my 
noblest  promise? 

As  a  blind  man  I  once  went  in  blessed  ways.   Then 


ye  threw  filth  in  the  way  of  the  blind  man.  And  now  the 
old  footpath  of  the  blind  man  striketh  him  with  disgust. 

And  when  I  did  my  hardest  and  celebrated  the 
victory  of  mine  overcomings,  then  ye  made  those  who 
loved  me  cry,  that  I  caused  them  the  sorest  pain. 

Verily,  it  hath  always  been  your  action,  to  make 
bitter  my  best  honey  and  the  diligence  of  my  best  bees. 

Ye  always  sent  the  most  impudent  beggars  unto 
my  charity.  Ye  always  pressed  the  incurably  shameless 
round  my  sympathy.  Thus  ye  wounded  my  virtues 
in  their  belief. 

And  as  soon  as  I  laid  down  as  a  sacrifice  what 
was  holiest  unto  me,  quickly  your  'piety'  laid  its 
fatter  gifts  beside  it,  so  that  in  the  steam  of  your  fat 
my  holiest  was  suffocated. 

And  once  I  wished  to  dance  as  I  had  danced  be- 
fore; I  wished  to  dance  beyond  all  heavens.  Then  ye 
persuaded  my  dearest  singer. 

And  now  he  started  a  dull,  terrible  melody.  Alas, 
he  blew  into  mine  ears  like  a  mournful  horn ! 

Murderous  singer,  tool  of  wickedness,  most  innocent 
one!  Already  I  stood  prepared  for  the  best  dance; 
then  thou  murderedst  my  rapture  with  thy  tunes! 

Only  in  dancing  I  know  how  to  utter  the  parable 
of  the  highest  things.  And  now  my  highest  parable 
remained  unuttered  in  my  limbs ! 

Unuttered  and  unsaved  remained  my  highest  hope! 
And  all  the  visions  and  comforts  of  my  youth  died ! 


How  did  I  bear  it?  How  did  I  forget  and  over- 
come such  wounds?  How  did  my  soul  rise  again 
from  these  graves? 

Yea,  a  thing  invulnerable,  unburiable  is  within 
me  ;  a  thing  that  blasteth  rocks ;  it  is  called  my  will. 
Silently  and  unchanged  it  walketh  through  the  years. 

It  will  go  its  way  on  my  feet,  mine  old  will; 
hard-hearted  and  invulnerable  is  its  sense. 

Invulnerable  I  am  at  my  heel  only.  There  thou 
still  livest  and  art  like  thyself,  thou  most  patient  one! 
Thou  hast  ever  broken  through  all  graves,  and  dost 
so  still ! 

In  thee  what  is  unsaved  of  my  youth  still  liveth. 
And  as  life  and  youth  thou  sittest  hopeful  on  the 
yellow  ruins  of  graves. 

Yea,  thou  still  art  for  me  the  destroyer  of  all 
graves!  All  hail  unto  thee,  my  will!  Only  where 
there  are  graves  are  there  resurrections." 

Thus  sang  Zarathustra. 


"'Will  unto  truth'  ye  call,  ye  wisest  men,  what 
inspireth  you  and  maketh  you  ardent? 

'  Will  unto  the  conceivableness  of  all  that  is ' — thus 
I  call  your  will! 

All  that  is  ye  are  going  to  make  conceivable.  For 
with  good  mistrust  ye  doubt  whether  it  is  conceivable. 

But  it  hath  to  submit  itself  and  bend  before  your- 
selves! Thus  your  will  willeth.  Smooth  it  shall  be- 
come and  subject  unto  spirit  as  its  mirror  and  reflected 

That  is  your  entire  will,  ye  wisest  men,  as  a  will 
unto  power;  even  when  ye  speak  of  good  and  evil 
and  of  valuations. 

Ye  will  create  the  world  before  which  to  kneel 
down.  Thus  it  is  your  last  hope  and  drunkenness. 

The  unwise,  it  is  true,  the  folk, — they  are  like  unto 
a  river  down  which  a  boat  glideth.  And  in  the  boat 
the  valuations  are  sitting  solemn  and  disguised. 

Your  will  and  your  valuations  ye  placed  on  the 
river  of  becoming.  What  is  believed  by  the  folk  as 


good  and  evil  betrayeth  unto  me  an  old  will  unto 

It  hath  been  you,  ye  wisest  men,  who  placed  such 
guests  in  the  boat  and  gave  them  pomp  and  proud 
names,  ye  and  your  dominating  will! 

Now  the  river  carrieth  on  your  boat ;  it  must  carry 
it  on.  Little  matter  if  the  broken  wave  foameth  and 
angrily  contradicteth  the  keel! 

Not  the  river  is  your  danger,  nor  the  end  of  your 
good  and  evil,  ye  wisest  men ;  but  that  will  itself, 
will  unto  power, — the  unexhausted,  procreative  will 
of  life. 

But  in  order  that  ye  may  understand  my  word  of 
good  and  evil,  I  shall  tell  you  my  word  of  life  and 
of  all  kinds  of  living  things. 

I  pursued  living  things,  I  walked  on  the  broadest 
and  the  narrowest  paths  to  perceive  their  kin. 

With  an  hundredfold  mirror  I  caught  their  glance 
when  their  mouth  was  shut,  in  order  to  hear  their  eye 
speak.  And  their  eye  spake  unto  me. 

But  wherever  I  found  living  things,  there  also  I 
heard  the  speech  of  obedience.  All  living  things  are 
things  that  obey. 

And  this  is  the  second:  he  is  commanded  who 
cannot  obey  his  own  self.  This  is  the  way  of  living 

But  this  is  the  third  I  heard:  to  command  is 
more  difficult  than  to  obey.  And  not  only  that  the 


commander  beareth  the  burden  of  all  who  obey,  and 
that  this  burden  easily  crusheth  him; — 

An  effort  and  a  jeopardy  appeared  unto  me  to  be 
contained  in  all  commanding;  and  whenever  living 
things  command  they  risk  themselves. 

Nay  even,  when  they  command  themselves :  even  there 
they  have  to  atone  for  their  commanding.  For  their  own 
law  they  must  become  judge  and  avenger  and  sacrifice. 

'How  doth  that  happen?'  I  asked  myself.  What 
persuadeth  living  things  to  obey  and  command  and  obey 
in  commanding? 

Now  hearken  unto  my  word,  ye  wisest  men !  Ex- 
amine earnestly  whether  I  have  stolen  into  the  heart 
of  life  itself  and  unto  the  roots  of  its  heart ! 

Wherever  I  found  living  matter  I  found  will 
unto  power;  and  even  in  the  will  of  the  serving,  I 
found  the  will  to  be  master. 

To  serve  the  stronger  the  weaker  is  persuaded  by 
its  own  will  which  wisheth  to  be  master  over  what  is 
still  weaker.  This  delight  alone  it  liketh  not  to  miss. 

And  as  the  smaller  giveth  itself  up  unto  the  larger, 
in  order  to  have  itself  delight  from,  and  power  over 
the  smallest:  thus  even  the  largest  giveth  itself  up, 
and  for  the  sake  of  power  risketh — life. 

That  is  the  devotion  of  the  largest,  to  be  jeopardy 
and  danger  and  a  casting  of  dice  about  death. 

And  wherever  there  are  sacrifice  and  services  and 
loving  glances,  there  is  will  to  be  master.  By  secret 


paths  the  weaker  one  stealeth  into  the  castle  and  unto 
the  heart  of  the  more  powerful  one — and  there  stealeth 

And  this  secret  did  life  itself  utter  unto  me :  '  Be- 
hold/ it  said,  '  I  am  whatever  must  surpass  itself. 

It  is  true,  ye  call  it  will  unto  procreation  or  im- 
pulse for  the  end,  for  the  higher,  the  more  remote,  the 
more  manifold ;  but  all  that  is  one  thing  and  one  secret. 

I  perish  rather  than  renounce  that  one  thing;  and, 
verily,  wherever  there  is  perishing  and  falling  of  leaves, 
behold,  life  sacrificeth  itself — for  the  sake  of  power! 

That  I  must  be  war  and  becoming  and  end  and 
the  contradiction  of  the  ends — alas,  he  who  findeth  out 
my  will,  probably  findeth  out  also  on  what  crooked 
ways  he  hath  to  walk ! 

Whatever  I  create  and  however  I  love  it,  soon 
afterwards  I  have  to  be  an  adversary  unto  it  and 
unto  my  love.  Thus  willeth  my  will. 

And  even  thou,  O  perceiver,  art  but  a  path  and 
footstep  of  my  will.  Verily,  my  will  unto  power 
walketh  on  the  feet  of  thy  will  unto  truth ! 

Of  course,  he  who  shot  after  the  word  of  '  will 
unto  existence'  did  not  hit  truth.  Such  a  will — doth 
not  exist ! 

For  what  existeth  not  cannot  will ;  but  what  is 
in  existence  how  could  that  strive  after  existence! 

Only  where  there  is  life,  there  is  will;  but  not 
will  unto  life,  but — thus  I  teach  thee — will  unto  power ! 



Many  things  are  valued  higher  by  living  things 
than  life  itself;  but  even  out  of  valuing  speaketh — 
will  unto  power ! ' 

Thus  life  once  taught  me.  And  by  means  of  that, 
ye  wisest  men,  I  read  you  the  riddle  of  your  heart. 

Verily,  I  tell  you:  good  and  evil,  which  would  be 
imperishable, — do  not  exist !  Of  themselves  they  must 
ever  again  surpass  themselves. 

With  your  values  and  words  of  good  and  evil  ye 
exercise  power,  ye  valuing  ones.  And  this  is  your 
hidden  love  and  the  shining,  trembling,  and  overflowing 
of  your  soul. 

But  a  stronger  power  waxeth  out  of  your  values, 
and  a  new  overcoming.  On  it  there  break  egg  and 

And  he  who  must  be  a  creator  in  good  and  evil — 
verily,  he  must  first  be  a  destroyer,  and  break  values 
into  pieces. 

Thus  the  highest  evil  is  part  of  the  highest  good- 
ness. But  that  is  creative  goodness. 

Let  us  speak  thereon,  ye  wisest  men,  however 
bad  it  be.  To  be  silent  is  worse ;  all  unuttered  truths 
become  poisonous. 

And  whatever  will  break  on  our  truths,  let  it  break ! 
Many  a  house  hath  yet  to  be  built!" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Still  is  the  bottom  of  my  sea.  Who  could  know 
that  it  hideth  jesting  monsters! 

Unshakable  is  my  depth,  but  it  shineth  from  swim- 
ming riddles  and  laughters. 

An  august  one  I  saw  to-day,  a  solemn  one,  a 
penitent  of  spirit.  Oh,  how  laughed  my  soul  at  his 
ugliness ! 

With  his  breast  raised  and  like  those  who  draw 
in  their  breath — thus  he  stood  there,  the  august  one, 
and  silent ; 

Covered  with  ugly  truths,  the  prey  of  his  hunting, 
and  rich  with  torn  clothes ;  many  thorns  also  hung  on 
him,  but  I  saw  no  rose. 

Not  yet  had  he  learnt  laughter  and  beauty. 
Frowning  this  hunter  came  back  from  the  forest  of 

He  returned  from  the  struggle  with  wild  beasts; 
but  out  of  his  seriousness  a  wild  beast  looketh — one 
not  overcome! 


Like  a  tiger  still  standeth  he  there,  about  to  jump; 
but  I  care  not  for  these  strained  souls;  my  taste  hath 
no  favour  for  all  these  reserved  ones. 

And  ye  tell  me,  friends,  that  one  cannot  quarrel 
about  taste  and  tasting?  But  all  life  is  a  struggle 
about  taste  and  tasting! 

Taste — that  is  at  the  same  time  weight  and  balance 
and  the  weighing  one.  And  alas !  for  all  living  things 
that  would  try  to  live  without  struggle  about  weight 
and  balance  and  weighing  ones! 

If  he  would  become  weary  of  his  augustness,  this 
august  one — only  then  his  beauty  would  begin.  And 
not  until  then  shall  I  taste  him  and  find  him  tasty. 

And  not  until  he  turneth  away  from  himself  will 
he  jump  over  his  own  shadow — and  lo!  straight  into 
his  sun. 

Much  too  long  hath  he  been  sitting  in  the  shadow ; 
the  cheeks  of  the  penitent  of  spirit  grew  pale ;  he  al- 
most died  from  hunger  because  of  his  expectations. 

Contempt  is  still  in  his  eye ;  and  loathing  is  hidden 
round  his  mouth.  Although  he  resteth  just  now,  his 
rest  hath  not  yet  lain  down  in  the  sun. 

He  ought  to  do  as  doth  the  bull ;  and  his  happiness 
ought  to  smell  after  earth  and  not  after  contempt 
of  earth. 

I  should  like  to  see  him  as  a  white  bull  snorting 
and  roaring  and  going  in  front  of  the  plough.  And 
even  his  roaring  should  praise  all  that  is  earthy. 


Dark  still  is  his  face;  the  shadow  of  his  hand 
playeth  over  it.  Overshadowed  still  is  the  sense  of 
his  eye. 

His  deed  itself  is  the  shadow  that  lieth  on  him; 
the  hand  obscureth  the  acting  one.  Not  yet  hath  he 
overcome  his  deed. 

True,  I  love  in  him  the  bull's  neck,  but  I  also 
want  to  see  the  angel's  eye. 

He  also  hath  to  unlearn  his  heroic  will.  He  shall 
be  one  who  is  lifted  up,  and  not  only  an  august 
one.  Ether  itself  should  lift  him  who  should  have  lost 
all  will! 

He  hath  conquered  monsters,  he  hath  solved  riddles. 
But  besides  he  should  save  his  monsters  and  riddles, 
he  should  alter  them  into  heavenly  children. 

Not  yet  hath  his  perception  learnt  how  to  smile 
and  be  without  jealousy ;  not  yet  hath  his  flowing 
passion  become  still  in  beauty. 

Verily,  not  in  satiety  shall  his  desire  be  silent  and 
submerge,  but  in  beauty !  Gracefulness  is  part  of  the 
generosity  of  the  magnanimous. 

His  arm  put  across  his  head — thus  the  hero  should 
rest;  thus  he  should  also  overcome  his  resting. 

But  for  the  hero  above  all  the  beautiful  is  the 
hardest  of  things.  Unattainable  by  struggle  is  the 
beautiful  for  all  eager  will. 

A  little  more,  a  little  less — just  that  is  here  much, 
that  is  here  the  most. 


To  stand  with  your  muscles  relaxed  and  with  your 
will  unharnessed,  that  is  the  hardest  for  all  of  you,  ye 
august ! 

When  power  becometh  gracious  and  steppeth  down 
into  visibleness — beauty  I  call  such  stepping  down. 

And  of  no  one  I  demand  beauty  with  the  same 
eagerness  as  just  from  thee,  thou  powerful  one.  Let  thy 
goodness  be  thy  last  self-overcoming! 

Everything  evil  I  expect  from  thee;  therefore  I 
demand  from  thee  what  is  good. 

Verily,  I  laughed  many  a  time  over  the  weaklings 
who  thought  themselves  good  because  they  had 
lame  paws! 

Thou  shalt  strive  after  the  virtue  of  the  pillar.  It  ever 
getteth  more  beautiful  and  tender,  but  inside  ever 
harder  and  more  able  to  bear  the  load,  the  higher 
it  ariseth. 

Yea,  thou  august  one,  one  day  thou  shalt  be  beauti- 
ful and  hold  the  mirror  before  thine  own  beauty. 

Then  thy  soul  will  quiver  with  godlike  desires; 
and  there  will  be  adoration  even  in  thy  vanity! 

For  this  is  the  secret  of  the  soul.  Not  until  the 
hero  hath  left  it,  is  it  approached  in  dream  by — 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Too  far  flew  I  into  the  future ;  a  shivering  seized  me. 

And  when  I  looked  round,  behold !  time  was  mine 
only  contemporary  there. 

Then  I  flew  backwards,  homeward — and  ever  in 
a  greater  haste.  Thus  I  came  unto  you,  ye  present  ones, 
and  into  the  country  of  culture. 

For  the  first  time  have  I  brought  with  me  an  eye 
to  see  you  and  a  good  desire.  Verily,  with  a  longing 
in  my  heart  have  I  come. 

But  what  befell  me?  However  frightened  I  was, — 
I  had  to  laugh!  Never  hath  mine  eye  seen  anything 
so  many-coloured ! 

I  laughed  and  laughed  whilst  my  foot  was  still 
trembling  and  my  heart  also.  'Behold,  here  is  the 
home  of  all  paint-pots ! '  said  I. 

With  fifty  spots  of  paint  on  your  face  and  limbs, 
ye  sat  there  and  aroused  mine  astonishment,  ye  pre- 
sent ones! 

And  with  fifty  mirrors  around  you,  which  flattered 
your  play  of  colours  and  spake  in  its  favour! 


Verily,  ye  could  not  possibly  wear  any  better  mask, 
ye  present  ones,  than  your  own  face  is !  Who  could 
recognise  you! 

Written  all  over  with  the  signs  of  the  past,  and 
these  signs  painted  over  with  new  signs — thus  have 
ye  concealed  yourselves  well  from  ah1  soothsayers! 

And  even  if  one  could  look  through  your  intestines 
— who  will  believe  that  ye  have  intestines?  Ye  seem 
to  have  been  baked  out  of  colours  and  glued  papers ! 

All  times  and  all  peoples,  many-coloured,  gaze  out 
of  your  veils ;  all  customs  and  beliefs,  many-coloured, 
speak  out  of  your  gestures. 

He  who  would  take  away  from  you  veils  and 
garments  and  colours  and  gestures — he  would  just 
keep  sufficient  to  scare  the  birds. 

Verily,  I  myself  am  the  scared  bird,  who  for  once 
saw  you  naked  and  colourless;  and  I  flew  away  when 
the  skeleton  made  me  signs  of  love. 

Rather  I  would  be  a  day-labourer  in  the  lower 
regions  and  among  the  shadows  of  the  past!  For 
fatter  and  fuller  than  ye  are  the  inhabitants  of  the 
lower  regions! 

This,  yea,  this  is  bitterness  in  my  bowels,  that  I 
can  endure  you  neither  naked  nor  dressed,  ye  present 

All  that  is  dismal  in  the  future,  all  that  hath  scared 
the  strayed  birds,  is  indeed  more  homelike  and  more 
familiar  than  your  'reality.' 


For  thus  ye  speak :  '  We  are  wholly  real  and 
without  any  belief  or  superstition.'  Thus  ye  give  your- 
selves airs — alas,  even  without  having  any  breasts! 

Oh,  how  could  ye  believe,  ye  many-coloured — ye 
who  are  pictures  of  whatever  hath  been  believed  at 
any  time ! 

Ye  are  yourselves  living  refutations  of  belief  and 
a  breaking  of  limbs  of  all  thought.  Untrustworthy — 
thus  I  call  you,  ye  real! 

All  times  rave  against  each  other  in  your  minds; 
and  the  dreams  and  gossip  of  all  times  have  been 
more  real  than  your  being  awake! 

Sterile  ye  are.  Therefore  faith  is  lacking  within 
you.  But  he  who  was  compelled  to  create  had  always 
his  prophesying  dreams  and  prognostics  in  the  stars 
— and  believed  in  belief! 

Half-open  doors  ye  are  at  which  gravediggers 
wait.  And  this  is  your  reality :  '  Everything  deserveth 
to  perish.' 

Oh,  how  ye  appear  unto  me,  ye  sterile,  how  meagre 
in  your  ribs !    And  many  of  you  knew  that  perfectly. 

And  they  said :  '  Whilst  I  was  sleeping,  a  God,  I  sup- 
pose, clandestinely  stole  something  from  me?  Verily, 
enough  to  form  a  little  woman  out  of  it ! ' 

'Wonderful  is  the  poverty  of  my  ribs!'  thus  said 
many  present  ones. 

Yea,  ye  make  me  laugh  at  you,  ye  present  ones! 
And  especially  when  ye  are  astonished  at  yourselves! 


And  woe  unto  me,  if  I  could  not  laugh  at  your 
astonishment,  and  had  to  swallow  whatever  is  loath- 
some in  your  dishes ! 

But  as  it  is,  I  shall  take  you  more  lightly,  since 
I  have  to  bear  heavy  things.  What  matter,  if  beetles 
and  flying  worms  alight  on  my  burden! 

Verily,  it  shah1  not  thereby  become  heavier !  And 
not  from  you,  ye  present  ones,  shall  my  great  weari- 
ness spring. 

Alas !  where  shall  I  now  ascend  with  my  longing  ? 
From  all  mountain-tops  I  look  out  for  my  fathers'  and 
my  mothers'  lands. 

But  a  home  I  found  nowhere.  Unresting  I  am  in 
all  towns  and  a  departure  at  all  gates! 

Strange  and  a  mockery  unto  me  are  the  present 
ones  unto  whom  my  heart  hath  driven  me  of  late. 
Banished  am  I  from  my  fathers'  and  my  mothers'  lands. 

Thus  I  love  only  my  children's  land,  the  un- 
discovered, in  the  remotest  sea.  For  it  I  bid  my  sails 
seek  and  seek. 

Unto  my  children  shall  I  make  amends  for  being 
the  child  of  my  fathers;  and  unto  all  the  future  shall 
I  make  amends  for  this  present!" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"When  the  moon  rose  yesternight,  I  fancied  she 
would  give  birth  unto  a  sun.  So  broad  and  big  she 
lay  on  the  horizon. 

But  a  liar  she  was  with  her  child-bearing ;  and  I 
shall  rather  believe  in  the  man  in  the  moon  than  in 
the  woman. 

To  be  sure,  there  is  little  of  man  either  in  the  moon, 
that  shy  dreamer  of  the  night.  Verily,  with  a  bad  con- 
science she  strideth  over  the  roofs. 

For  he  is  lascivious  and  jealous,  the  monk  in  the 
moon,  lascivious  for  earth  and  all  delights  of  the  loving. 

Nay,  I  like  him  not,  this  tom-cat  on  the  roofs  !  Dis- 
gusting for  me  are  all  who  steal  round  half-closed 
windows  ! 

Piously  and  silently  he  walketh  on  over  starry 
carpets.  But  I  like  not  soft-stepping  men's  feet,  with- 
out even  a  spur  clinking. 

Every  honest  man's  step  speaketh ;  but  the  cat 
stealeth  over  the  ground.  Behold,  like  a  cat,  dishonestly 
the  moon  strideth  on. 

This  parable  I  give  unto  you  sentimental  dissemblers, 


unto  you  with  your  'pure    perception.'     You   /  call 
lascivious  ! 

Ye  also  love  earth  and  things  earthly.  Truly  I  found 
you  out !  But  shame  and  bad  conscience  are  in  your 
love ;  ye  are  like  the  moon  ! 

To  despise  things  earthly  your  mind  hath  been  per- 
suaded, but  not  your  bowels  which  are  the  strongest 
thing  within  you  ! 

And  now  your  mind  is  ashamed  to  be  under  the 
will  of  your  bowels,  and  goeth  byways  and  lie-ways 
to  escape  its  own  shame. 

'That  would  be  the  highest  for  me' — thus  saith 
your  deceitful  mind  unto  itself —  '  to  look  at  life  without 
desire,  and  not  like  the  dog  with  the  tongue  hanging  out ; 
To  be  happy  in  gazing,  with  one's  will  dead, 
without  the  grasp  or  greediness  of  selfishness — cold  and 
ashen-grey  all  over  the  body,  but  with  the  eyes  drunken 
like  the  moon  ! 

That  is  what  I  should  like  best.'  Thus  the  seduced 
one  seduceth  himself  to  love  earth,  as  the  moon  loveth 
it,  and  to  touch  its  beauty  solely  with  the  eye. 

And  I  call  it  the  immaculate  perception  of  all 
things,  that  I  want  nothing  from  things  but  to  be 
allowed  to  lie  before  them  ,like  a  mirror  with  an 
hundred  eyes. 

Oh,  ye  sentimental  dissemblers,  ye  lascivious  !  Ye 
lack  innocence  in  desire,  and  therefore  ye  backbite 


Verily,  not  as  creators,  procreators,  happy  in 
becoming,  ye  love  earth  ! 

Where  is  innocence?  Where  will  unto  procreation 
is.  And  he  who  would  create  beyond  himself,  hath  in 
mine  eyes  the  purest  will. 

Where  is  beauty  ?  Where  I  am  compelled  to  will 
with  all  will ;  where  I  must  love  and  perish  in  order 
that  an  image  may  not  remain  an  image  only. 

Loving  and  perishing, — these  words  have  rhymed 
for  eternities.  Will  unto  love, — that  is,  to  be  willing 
even  unto  death.  Thus  I  speak  unto  you  cowards  ! 

But  now  your  emasculate  ogling  wisheth  to  be 
called  '  contemplativeness.'  And  what  can  be  touched 
with  cowardly  eyes  is  to  be  baptised  '  beautiful  ! '  Oh, 
ye  befoulers  of  noble  names  ! 

But  that  shall  be  your  curse,  ye  immaculate,  ye 
pure  perceivers,  that  ye  shall  never  give  birth.  And 
that  although  ye  lie  broad  and  big  on  the  horizon  ! 

Verily,  ye  fill  your  mouth  well  with  noble  words, 
and  we  are  to  be  made  believe  that  your  heart  hath 
too  great  abundance,  ye  liars  ? 

But  my  words  are  small,  despised,  crooked  words  ; 
happily  I  pick  up  what  falleth  under  the  table  during 
your  dinner. 

Still  they  serve  to  tell  dissemblers  the  truth  !  Yea, 
my  fishbones,  shells,  and  stinging  leaves  shall  tickle 
the  noses  of  dissemblers  ! 

Bad   air   is   always   around   you    and  your   meals. 


For  your  lascivious  thoughts,  your  lies  and  secrecies  are 
in  the  air  ! 

Dare  first  to  believe  yourselves — yourselves  and 
your  intestines !  He  who  doth  not  believe  himself 
lieth  ever. 

A  God's  mask  ye  hang  before  yourselves,  ye  '  pure.' 
In  a  God's  mask  hid  itself  your  horrible  coiled  worm. 

Verily,  ye  deceive,  ye  '  contemplative  ! '  Zarathustra 
also  hath  been  the  dupe  of  your  godlike  hides.  He 
did  not  find  out  the  coiling  of  the  snakes  by  which 
they  were  stuffed. 

Once  I  thought  I  saw  a  God's  soul  play  in  your 
plays,  ye  pure  perceivers !  No  better  art  I  once 
thought  existed  than  your  arts ! 

The  filth  of  snakes  and  the  bad  odour  were  hidden 
from  me  by  distance.  So  was  the  fact  that  the  cun- 
ning of  a  lizard  crept  lasciviously  about. 

But  I  stepped  close  unto  you.  Then  the  day  came 
unto  me,  and  now  it  cometh  unto  you, — the  moon's 
flirtation  is  at  an  end  ! 

Look  there  !  Detected  and  pale  she  standeth  there 
—before  the  dawn  of  the  day  ! 

There  it  cometh  already,  the  glowing  one, — its  love 
unto  earth  cometh !  All  sun-love  is  innocence  and 
creative  desire. 

Look  there,  how  impatiently  it  cometh  over  the 
sea !  Feel  ye  not  the  thirst  and  the  hot  breath  of  its 
love  ? 



It   will   suck  the   sea,    and   by  drinking   its   depth 
p*  MI  •  i 
draw  up  unto  the  height.  Then  the  lust  of  the  sea  riseth 

with  a  thousand  breasts. 

It  desireth  to  be  kissed  and  sucked  by  the  thirst 
of  the  sun  ;  it  desireth  to  become  air  and  height,  and 
a  foot-path  of  light,  and  light  itself ! 

Verily,  like  the  sun  I  love  life  and  all  deep  seas. 

And  this  is  called  perception  by  myself :  all  that 
is  deep  shall  be  raised  upwards — unto  my  height ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  When  I  lay  sleeping,  a  sheep  ate  at  the  ivy- wreath 
of  my  head, — ate  and  said  eating  :  '  Zarathustra  is  no 
longer  a  scholar.' 

Said  it  and  went  off  clumsily  and  proudly.  So  a 
child  told  me. 

I  like  to  lie  here  where  the  children  play,  at  the 
broken  wall,  under  thistles  and  red  poppy  flowers. 

A  scholar  am  I  still  for  the  children  and  the  thistles 
and  the  red  poppy  flowers.  Innocent  are  they,  even 
in  their  wickedness. 

But  a  scholar  am  I  no  longer  for  the  sheep.  Thus 
my  fate  willeth — be  it  blessed  ! 

For  this  is  the  truth  :  I  have  departed  from  the 
house  of  scholars,  and  the  door  I  have  shut  violently 
behind  me. 

Too  long  sat  my  soul  hungry  at  their  table.  Not, 
as  they,  am  I  trained  for  perceiving  as  for  cracking 

Freedom  I  love,   and  a   breeze   over   a  fresh  soil. 



And  I  would  rather  sleep  on  ox-skins  than  on  their 
honours  and  respectabilities. 

I  am  too  hot  and  am  burnt  with  mine  own  thoughts, 
so  as  often  to  take  my  breath  away.  Then  I  must 
go  into  the  open  air  and  away  from  all  dusty  rooms. 

But  they  are  sitting  cool  in  the  cool  shadow.  They 
like  to  be  spectators  in  all  things  and  take  care  not 
to  sit  where  the  sun  burneth  on  the  steps. 

Like  such  as  stand  in  the  street  and  gaze  at  the 
folk  passing — thus  they  tarry  and  gaze  at  the  thoughts 
thought  by  others. 

As  soon  as  they  are  grasped  by  hands,  they  give 
off  dust  like  flour-bags,  and  involuntarily.  But  who 
would  find  out  rightly  that  their  dust  is  derived  from 
the  corn  and  the  yellow  delight  of  summer  fields  ? 

When  they  give  themselves  the  air  of  wisdom,  I 
grow  cold  with  their  petty  sayings  and  truths.  An 
odour  is  often  in  their  wisdom,  as  if  it  sprang  from 
the  swamp.  And,  verily,  I  have  even  heard  the  frog 
croak  in  it ! 

Clever  they  are,  they  have  able  fingers.  What  doth 
my  simplicity  wish  from  their  manifoldness  ?  Their 
fingers  understand  all  threading  and  knotting  and 
weaving.  Thus  they  weave  the  stockings  of  the  spirit ! 

Good  clock-works  are  they.  Only  take  care  to 
wind  them  up  properly  !  Then  without  deceitfulness 
they  indicate  the  hour  and  make  a  modest  noise  in 
So  doing. 


Like  millworks  they  work,  and  like  corn-crushers. 
Let  folk  only  throw  their  grain  into  them  !  They 
know  only  too  well  how  to  grind  corn  and  make 
white  dust  out  of  it. 

They  look  well  at  each  other's  fingers  and  trust 
each  other  not  over-much.  Ingenious  in  little  strata- 
gems, they  wait  for  those  whose  knowledge  walketh 
on  lame  feet ;  like  spiders  they  wait. 

I  have  seen  them  always  prepare  their  poison 
with  prudence ;  and  they  always  put  gloves  of  glass 
on  their  fingers  in  so  doing. 

They  also  know  how  to  play  with  false  dice  ;  and 
I  found  them  play  so  eagerly  that  they  perspired 
from  it. 

We  are  strangers  unto  each  other,  and  their  virtues 
are  still  more  contrary  unto  my  taste  than  their  false- 
hoods and  false  dice. 

And  when  I  lived  among  them  I  lived  above  them. 
Therefore  they  became  angry  at  me. 

They  like  not  to  hear  of  any  one  walking  above 
their  heads.  Thus  they  laid  wood  and  earth  and 
filth  between  myself  and  their  heads. 

Thus  they  have  deadened  the  sound  of  my  steps  ; 
and  the  most  learned  have  heard  me  worst. 

The  fault  and  weakness  of  all  human  beings  they 
laid  between  themselves  and  myself.  'False  ceiling' 
they  call  that  in  their  houses. 

But  nevertheless  I  walk  with   my   thoughts  above 


their  heads ;  and  even  if  I  should  walk  on  mine 
own  faults,  I  should  still  be  above  them  and  their 

For  men  are  not  equal.  Thus  speaketh  justice. 
And  what  I  will  they  would  not  be  allowed  to 
will ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"Since  I  came  to  know  the  body  better,"  said 
Zarathustra  unto  one  of  his  disciples,  "  spirit  hath  been 
for  me,  as  it  were,  spirit  only,  and  all  that  is  '  imperish- 
able'— only  a  simile." 

"Thus  I  heard  thee  say  already,"  answered  the 
disciple.  "And  when  thou  saidst  thus  thou  didst  add  : 
'But  the  poets  lie  too  much.'  Why  didst  thou  say 
that  the  poets  lie  too  much?" 

"Why?"  said  Zarathustra.  "Thou  askest  why? 
I  am  not  of  those  who  may  be  asked  for  their  whys. 

Forsooth,  is  mine  experience  of  yesterday?  It  is 
long  since  I  found  by  experience  the  reasons  for  mine 

Would  I  not  require  to  be  a  barrel  of  memory, 
if  I  were  to  have  my  reasons  with  me  ? 

Even  to  keep  mine  opinions  is  too  much  for  me; 
and  many  a  bird  flieth  off. 

And  sometimes  indeed  I  find  a  bird^  in  my  dove- 
cot, that  hath  come  there  but  is  strange  unto  me  and 
trembleth  when  I  lay  my  hand  on  it. 


But  what  did  Zarathustra  once  say  unto  thee? 
That  the  poets  lie  too  much?  But  Zarathustra  is  a 
poet  also. 

Believest  thou  now  that  he  spake  the  truth  in  this 
point?  Why  dost  thou  believe  that?" 

The  disciple  answered:  "I  believe  in  Zarathustra." 
But  Zarathustra  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"  Belief  doth  not  make  me  blessed,"  said  he,  "  more 
especially  not  the  belief  in  myself. 

But  suppose  somebody  said  seriously  that  the  poets 
lie  too  much:  he  is  right, — we  lie  too  much. 

Besides  we  know  too  little  and  are  bad  learners. 
Thus  we  are  compelled  to  lie. 

And  which  of  us  poets  hath  not  adulterated  his 
wine  ?  Many  a  poisonous  mishmash  hath  been  brought 
about  in  our  cellars  ;  many  indescribable  things  have 
been  done  there. 

And  because  we  know  little  we  like  from  our 
heart's  heart  the  poor  in  spirit,  especially  if  they  are 
little  young  women! 

And  we  are  even  desirous  of  the  things  which  the 
little  old  women  tell  each  other  at  night.  This  we 
call  in  ourselves  eternally  feminine. 

And  as  though  there  were  a  particular  secret  access 
unto  knowledge,  which  was  obstructed  for  those  who 
learn  something — we  believe  in  the  folk  and  their 
'  wisdom.' 

But  this  is  what  all  poets  believe,    that  he  who  is 

OF  POETS  185 

lying  in  the  grass  or  by  lonely  slopes  and  pricketh 
up  his  ears,  learneth  something  about  the  things 
which  are  between  heaven  and  earth. 

And  when  feeling  amorous  emotions,  the  poets  ever 
think  that  nature  herself  is  in  love  with  them. 

And  that  she  stealeth  unto  their  ear,  to  whisper  into 
it  secret  things  and  love-flatteries, — of  that  they  boast, 
and  in  it  they  take  their  pride  in  the  presence  of  all 
mortals ! 

Alas,  there  are  so  many  things  between  heaven 
and  earth  of  which  poets  only  have  dreamt ! 

And  chiefly  above  heaven.  For  all  Gods  are  a  simile 
of  poets,  an  imposition  by  poets ! 

Verily,  we  are  always  drawn  upwards — namely 
into  the  kingdom  of  clouds.  On  these  we  place  our 
coloured  dolls  and  call  them  Gods  and  beyond- 

For  they  are  just  light  enough  for  such  chairs— 
all  these  Gods  and  beyond-men  ! 

Alas,  how  weary  I  am  of  all  the  inadequate  things 
which  are  obstinately  maintained  to  be  actuality!  Alas, 
how  weary  I  am  of  poets ! " 

Zarathustra  so  saying,  his  disciple  was  angry  with 
him  but  was  silent.  And  Zarathustra  was  silent  also ; 
and  his  eye  had  turned  inwards,  as  though  he  gazed 
into  far  distances.  At  last  he  sighed  and  took  breath. 

Then  he   said:   "I  am  of  to-day  and   of  the  past; 


but  something  is  within  me,  that  is  of  to-morrow  and 
the  day  after  to-morrow  and  the  far  future. 

I  became  weary  of  poets,  of  the  old  and  of  the 
new.  Superficial  all  of  them  are,  and  shallow  seas. 

They  did  not  think  deep  enough.  Therefore  their 
feeling  did  not  sink  so  deep  as  to  reach  the  bottom. 

Some  voluptuousness  and  some  tediousness — these 
have  even  been  their  best  meditation. 

As  a  breathing  and  vanishing  of  ghosts  I  regard 
all  the  strumming  of  their  harp.  What  have  they  known 
hitherto  of  the  ardour  of  tones ! 

Besides  they  are  not  cleanly  enough  for  me.  All 
of  them  make  their  water  muddy  that  it  may  seem 

And  they  like  to  let  themselves  appear  as  recon- 
cilers. But  mediators  and  mixers  they  remain  for  me, 
and  half-and-half  ones  and  uncleanly ! 

Alas,  it  is  true  I  have  cast  my  net  in  their  seas 
and  tried  to  catch  good  fish;  but  I  always  drew  up 
the  head  of  some  old  God. 

Thus  the  sea  gave  a  stone  unto  the  hungry 
one.  And  perhaps  they  themselves  are  born  from 
the  sea. 

True,  one  findeth  pearls  in  them.  So  much  the  more 
are  they  like  unto  the  hard  shell-fish.  And  instead  of 
a  soul  I  often  found  salt  slime  in  them. 

From  the  sea  they  learned  even  its  vanity.  Is  not 
the  sea  the  peacock  of  peacocks? 

OF  POETS  187 

Even  before  the  ugliest  of  all  buffaloes  it  unfoldeth 
its  tail ;  and  it  never  wearieth  of  its  lace-fan  of  silver 
and  silk. 

Defiantly  looketh  at  it  the  buffalo,  with  soul 
nigh  the  sand,  still  nigher  the  thicket,  but  nighest 
the  swamp. 

What  is  for  it  beauty  and  sea  and  peacock-deco- 
ration? This  simile  I  give  unto  poets. 

Verily,  their  mind  itself  is  the  peacock  of  peacocks, 
and  a  sea  of  vanity! 

The  mind  of  poets  wisheth  spectators, — even  if  it 
were  buffaloes! 

But  I  wearied  of  that  mind ;  and  I  see  a  time  when 
it  will  weary  of  itself. 

Changed  already  have  I  seen  the  poets,  and  their 
glance  turned  against  themselves. 

Penitents  of  spirit  I  saw  come.  They  grew  out  of 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


There  is  an  island  in  the  sea — not  far  from  the 
blissful  islands  of  Zarathustra — in  which  a  volcano 
smoketh  constantly.  The  folk,  and  especially  the  little 
old  women  among  the  folk,  say  that  that  island  is  set 
before  the  gate  of  the  underworld.  But  through  the 
volcano  there  is  a  narrow  path  down,  which  leadeth 
unto  that  gate  of  the  underworld. 

About  that  time  when  Zarathustra  lived  on  the 
blissful  islands  it  came  to  pass  that  a  ship  cast  an- 
chor at  that  island  on  which  the  smoking  mountain 
standeth;  and  the  sailors  of  that  ship  went  ashore  in 
order  to  shoot  rabbits!  But  about  the  hour  of  noon, 
when  the  captain  and  his  men  had  mustered  again, 
they  suddenly  saw  a  man  come  through  the  air  unto 
them,  and  a  voice  said  distinctly :  "  It  is  time !  It  is 
high  time ! "  But  when  that  person  was  nighest 
unto  them  (he  passed  by  them  flying  quickly  like  a 
shadow,  in  the  direction  in  which  the  volcano  was 
situated)  they  recognised  with  the  greatest  confusion  that 
it  was  Zarathustra.  For  all  of  them,  except  the  captain, 


had  seen  him  before,  and  they  loved  him,  as  the  folk 
love,  blending  love  and  awe  in  equal  parts. 

"  Lo  there ! "  said  the  old  steersman,  "  Zarathustra 
goeth  unto  hell!" 

About  the  same  time  when  these  sailors  landed  at 
the  fire-island,  a  rumour  went  about  that  Zarathustra 
had  disappeared.  And  when  his  friends  were  asked 
they  told  how  at  night  he  had  gone  aboard  a  ship 
without  saying  whither  he  was  going  to  voyage. 

Thus  some  anxiety  arose.  But  after  three  days  the 
story  of  the  sailors  was  added  unto  that  anxiety — and 
now  everyone  said  that  the  devil  had  taken  Zara- 
thustra. Although  his  disciples  laughed  at  that  gossip 
and  one  of  them  even  said :  "  I  rather  believe  that 
Zarathustra  hath  taken  the  devil,"  at  the  bottom  of 
their  soul  they  were  all  full  of  sorrow  and  longing. 
Thus  their  joy  was  great  when,  on  the  fifth  day,  Zara- 
thustra appeared  among  them. 

And  this  is  the  story  of  Zarathustra's  conversation 
with  the  fiery  dog: 

"  Earth,"  said  he,  "  hath  a  skin ;  and  that  skin  hath 
diseases.  One  of  these  diseases,  for  example,  is  cal- 
led :  '  man.' 

And  another  of  these  diseases  is  called  '  fiery  dog ; ' 
of  it  men  have  told  and  been  told  many  lies. 

To  find  out  this  secret  I  went  beyond  the  sea. 
And  I  have  seen  truth  naked,  verily!  barefoot  up  to 
its  neck. 


Now  I  know  the  truth  about  that  fiery  dog;  and  at  the 
same  time  about  all  the  devils  of  casting  out  and  of  re- 
volution, of  which  not  only  little  old  women  are  afraid. 

'  Come  up,  fiery  dog,  out  of  thy  depth ! '  I  shouted, 
'  and  confess  how  deep  that  depth  is !  Whence  cometh 
what  thou  snortest  up  ? 

Thou  drinkest  enough  at  the  sea ;  that  is  betrayed 
by  thy  salt  eloquence!  Verily,  considering  that  thou 
art  a  dog  of  the  depth  thou  takest  thy  food  too  much 
from  the  surface ! 

At  the  highest  I  regard  thee  as  a  ventriloquist 
of  earth,  and  whenever  I  heard  devils  of  revolution 
and  casting  out  speak,  I  found  them  to  be  like  thee : 
salt,  deceitful  and  shallow. 

Ye  understand  how  to  roar  and  to  darken  with 
ashes!  Ye  are  the  best  swaggerers  and  have  suffi- 
ciently learnt  the  art  of  heating  mud. 

Wherever  ye  are,  there  must  mud  be  nigh,  and 
many  mud-like,  hollow,  squeezed-in  things.  They  seek 
to  get  into  freedom. 

"  Freedom "  all  of  you  like  best  to  shout.  But  I 
have  lost  my  belief  in  "  great  events,"  whenever  much 
shouting  and  smoke  are  round  them. 

And  believe  me,  friend  Hellish  Noise !  The  greatest 
events  are  not  our  loudest  but  our  stillest  hours. 

The  world  doth  not  revolve  round  the  inventors 
of  new  noise,  but  round  the  inventors  of  new  values ; 
inaudibly  it  turneth. 


And  now  confess !  Little  had  actually  happened 
when  thy  noise  and  smoke  disappeared.  What  matter 
that  a  town  became  a  mummy,  and  a  statue  lay  in 
the  mud! 

And  this  word  I  tell  the  subverters  of  statues.  Pro- 
bably the  greatest  folly  is  to  throw  salt  into  the  sea, 
and  statues  into  the  mud. 

In  the  mud  of  your  contempt  the  statue  lay.  But 
that  very  fact  is  its  law,  that  out  of  contempt  life  and 
living  beauty  grow  again! 

With  more  godlike  features  it  now  ariseth,  seducing 
by  suffering;  and  verily!  it  will  thank  you  one  day 
for  subverting  it,  ye  subverters! 

But  with  this  counsel  I  counsel  kings  and  churches 
and  ah1  that  is  weak  from  old  age  and  virtue  :  allow 
yourselves  to  be  subverted!  In  order  that  ye  may 
recover  life,  and  that — virtue  may  recover  you ! ' 

Thus  I  spake  before  the  fiery  dog  ;  then  it  inter- 
rupted me  sullenly  and  asked  : '  Church  ?  What  is  that  ? ' 

'  Church  ? '  I  answered,  '  that  is  a  kind  of  state, 
viz.,  the  most  deceitful  kind.  But  be  quiet,  thou  hypo- 
critical dog  !  Thou  knowest  thy  kin  best,  I  suppose ! 

The  state  is  a  hypocritical  dog  like  thyself;  like 
thyself  it  liketh  to  speak  with  smoke  and  roaring, — in 
order  to  make  believe,  like  thee,  that  it  speaketh  out 
of  the  womb  of  things. 

For  it  wisheth  absolutely  to  be  the  most  important 
animal  on  earth,  the  state.  And  it  is  believed  to  be  so.' 


When  I  had  said  thus,  the  fiery  dog  behaved  as 
if  it  were  mad  with  envy.  '  How  ? '  it  cried,  '  the 
most  important  animal  on  earth  ?  And  it  is  be- 
lieved to  be  so  ? '  And  so  much  steam  and  terrible 
voices  came  from  its  throat,  that  I  thought  it  would 
choke  with  anger  and  envy. 

At  last  it  became  quieter,  and  its  panting  ceased. 
But  as  soon  as  it  was  quiet  I  said  laughing  : 

'  Thou  art  angry,  fiery  dog.  Therefore  I  am  right 
about  thee  ! 

And  in  order  that  I  may  also  be  right  in  future, 
let  me  speak  unto  thee  of  another  fiery  dog,  that 
actually  speaketh  out  of  the  heart  of  earth. 

Gold  is  breathed  by  its  breath,  and  a  golden  rain. 
Thus  its  heart  willeth.  What  are  for  it  ashes  and 
smoke  and  hot  phlegm  ! 

Laughter  fluttereth  out  of  it  like  coloured  clouds  ; 
it  misliketh  thy  gargling  and  spitting  and  thy  pains 
in  the  bowels ! 

But  gold  and  laughter  it  taketh  out  of  the  heart 
of  earth.  For  thou  mayest  now  know — the  heart  of 
earth  is  of  gold.' 

When  the  fiery  dog  had  heard  that,  it  could  bear 
no  longer  to  listen  unto  me.  In  shame  it  drew  in  its 
tail ;  sorely  cast  down  it  said :  '  Bow  wow  ! '  and  crept 
down  into  its  cave." 


Thus  told  Zarathustra.  But  his  disciples  scarcely 
listened  unto  him.  So  great  was  their  desire  to  tell 
him  about  the  sailors,  the  rabbits,  and  the  flying 

"  What  am  I  to  think  of  that ! "  said  Zarathustra. 
"Am  I  a  ghost  ? 

But  it  may  have  been  my  shadow.  I  suppose  ye 
have  heard  some  things  about  the  wanderer  and  his 
shadow  ? 

But  one  thing  is  sure  :  I  must  keep  it  shorter, — 
otherwise  it  spoileth  my  reputation." 

And  Zarathustra  shook  his  head  once  more  and 
wondered.  "  What  am  I  to  think  of  that ! "  he  repeated. 

"  Why  did  that  ghost  cry  :  '  It  is  high  time  ! ' 

For  what  is  it — high  time  ?  " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"And  I  saw  a  great  sadness  coming  over  men. 
The  best  became  weary  of  their  works. 

A  doctrine  went  out,  a  belief  ran  with  it :  'All  is 
empty,  all  is  equal,  all  hath  been  ! ' 

And  from  all  hills  it  echoed  :  '  All  is  empty,  all  is 
equal,  all  hath  been  ! ' 

True,  we  have  reaped.  But  why  grew  all  our  fruits 
rotten  and  brown  ?  What  hath  fallen  down  from  the 
evil  moon  last  night  ? 

In  vain  hath  been  all  work,  our  wine  hath  become 
poison,  an  evil  eye  hath  burnt  our  fields  and  hearts 

Dry  all  of  us  have  become  ;  and  when  fire  falleth 
down  on  us  we  become  dust  like  ashes.  Fire  itself 
we  have  wearied  out.  For  us,  all  wells  pined  away ;  even 
the  sea  receded  from  us.  All  the  soil  is  going  to 
break,  but  the  depth  is  not  going  to  devour  anything  ! 

Alas  !  where  is  a  sea  left  to  be  drowned  in  ?  Thus 
soundeth  our  lament,  away  over  shallow  swamps. 


Verily,  we  are  already  too  weary  to  die.  Now  we 
wake  on  and  live  on — in  burial  vaults!" 

Thus  heard  Zarathustra  a  fortune-teller  say  ;  and 
the  prophecy  touched  his  heart  and  changed  him.  He 
went  about  dreary  and  weary ;  and  he  became  like  those 
of  whom  the  fortune-teller  had  spoken. 

"Verily,"  said  he  unto  his  disciples,  "yet  a  little 
while,  and  then  cometh  that  long  twilight.  Alas,  how 
can  I  save  my  light  beyond  it ! 

Would  that  it  were  not  extinguished  in  that  sadness  ! 
For  it  is  meant  to  be  a  light  for  still  remoter  worlds, 
and  for  the  remotest  nights  ! " 

Thus  afflicted  Zarathustra  went  about.  And  for  three 
days  he  did  not  take  any  drink  or  food  ;  he  had  no 
rest  and  lost  his  speech.  At  last  it  came  to  pass  that 
he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  But  his  disciples  sat  around 
him  in  long  night-watches  and  waited  sorrowing,  to 
see  whether  he  would  awake  and  speak  again  and 
recover  from  his  affliction. 

This  is  the  speech  which  Zarathustra  made  when 
he  awoke.  But  his  voice  sounded  unto  his  disciples 
as  though  it  came  from  a  far  distance. 

"Now  listen  unto  the  dream  I  dreamt,  ye  friends, 
and  help  me  to  find  out  its  sense  ! 

A  riddle  it  is  still  for  me,  that  dream.  Its  sense  is 
hidden  within  it  and  caught  in  it,  and  flieth  not  yet 
over  it  with  free  wings. 



I  dreamt  I  had  renounced  all  life.  I  had  become 
a  night  watchman  and  grave  watchman,  there  on  the 
lonely  castle  of  death  in  the  mountains. 

On  high  there  I  guarded  death's  coffins.  The  damp 
vaults  stood  full  of  such  signs  of  triumph.  Out  of 
glass  coffins,  overcome  life  gazed  at  me. 

The  odour  of  dusty  eternities  I  breathed.  Sultry  and 
dusty  lay  my  soul.  And  who  could  have  aired  his 
soul  there  ! 

Light  of  midnight  was  always  round  me,  loneliness 
cowered  beside  me,  and,  as  the  third,  the  death-still- 
ness-and-rattle,  the  most  wicked  of  all  my  female  friends. 

I  had  keys  with  me,  the  rustiest  of  keys  ;  and  I 
knew  how  to  open  with  them  the  loudest  creaking 

Like  a  very  cruel  groan  the  sound  ran  through 
the  long  corridors  when  the  door  opened  on  both 
hinges  ;  weirdly  cried  that  bird ;  it  liked  not  to  be 

But  still  more  terrible,  strangling  one's  heart,  it 
was  when  it  became  silent  again  and  still  round  about, 
and  I  sat  alone  with  that  insidious  silence. 

Thus  the  time  went  on  and  crept  on,  if  there  really 
was  time.  What  know  I  thereof!  But  at  last  that 
came  to  pass  which  awakened  me. 

Three  times  blows  struck  the  door,  like  thunder 
strokes  ;  three  times  the  vaults  resounded  and  groaned ; 
then  I  went  unto  the  door. 


'Alpa  ! '  I  called,  '  who  carrieth  his  ashes  unto  the 
mountains  ?  Alpa !  Alpa !  Who  carrieth  his  ashes 
unto  the  mountains  ? ' 

And  I  pressed  the  key  and  tried  to  lift  the  door, 
and  exerted  myself.  But  it  was  not  yet  opened  a 
finger's  breadth — 

Then  an  impetuous  wind  tore  its  two  halves  apart. 
Whistling,  whizzing,  and  buzzing  it  threw  a  black 
coffin  at  me. 

And  amidst  the  roaring  and  whistling  and  whizzing 
the  coffin  brake  and  spat  out  a  thousandfold  laughter. 

And  out  of  a  thousand  caricatures  of  children, 
angels,  owls,  fools,  and  butterflies  as  big  as  children, 
something  laughed  and  mocked  and  roared  at  me. 

It  made  me  sore  afraid,  it  threw  me  down.  And 
with  terror  I  yelled,  as  never  I  yelled  before. 

But  mine  own  cry  awakened  me ;  and  I  became 
conscious  again." 

Thus  Zarathustra  told  his  dream  and  then  was 
silent.  For  he  did  not  yet  know  the  interpretation  of 
it.  But  the  disciple  whom  he  loved  most,  arose  quickly 
and  took  Zarathustra's  hand,  saying  : 

"  Thy  life  itself  is  explained  unto  us  by  this  dream, 
O  Zarathustra  ! 

Art  thou  not  thyself  the  wind  with  whizzing  whist- 
ling, that  openeth  the  doors  of  the  castles  of  death  ? 

Art  thou  not  thyself  the  coffin  of  many-coloured 
wickednesses  and  caricatures  of  the  angels  of  life  ? 


Verily,  like  a  thousandfold  laughter  of  children 
Zarathustra  entereth  all  chambers  of  the  dead,  laugh- 
ing at  those  night  watchmen  and  grave  watchmen, 
and  whoever  else  rattleth  with  gloomy  keys. 

Thou  wilt  terrify  and  subvert  them  with  thy  laughter. 
Impotence  and  awakening  will  be  proved  by  thy 
power  over  them. 

And  even  when  the  long  dawn  cometh,  and  the 
weariness  of  death,  thou  wilt  not  set  in  our  sky,  thou 
advocate  of  life  ! 

Thou  madest  us  see  new  stars  and  new  beauties 
of  the  night.  Verily,  life  itself  thou  didst  stretch  over 
us  like  a  many-coloured  tent. 

Now  for  ever  the  laughter  of  children  will  spring 
forth  from  coffins  ;  now  for  ever  a  strong  wind  will 
come  victoriously  over  all  weariness  of  death.  Of  that 
thou  art  thyself  a  pledge  and  a  prophet. 

Verily,  thou  beheldest  thine  enemies  themselves,  in 
thy  dream  ;  that  was  thy  hardest  dream  ! 

But  as  thou  awokest  and  earnest  back  from  them 
unto  thyself,  so  shall  they  awake  from  themselves 
and — come  unto  thee  ! " 

Thus  said  the  disciple.  And  now  all  the  others 
thronged  round  Zarathustra  and  took  his  hands  and 
tried  to  persuade  him  to  leave  his  bed  and  his  sadness 
and  return  unto  them.  But  Zarathustra  sat  upright  on 
his  couch  and  with  a  strange  glance.  Like  unto  one 
who  returneth  from  a  long  journey  abroad  he  gazed 


at  his  disciples  and  examined  their  faces  ;  but  not  yet 
did  he  recognise  them.  But  when  they  lifted  him  and 
set  him  on  his  feet,  behold,  then  his  eye  changed  at 
once.  He  understood  all  that  had  befallen,  he  stroked 
his  beard  and  said  with  a  strong  voice  : 

"  Up  !  This  hath  had  its  time.  Take  care,  my  dis- 
ciples, that  we  have  a  good  dinner,  and  that  right 
early  !  Thus  would  I  do  penance  for  bad  dreams  ! 

But  the  fortune-teller  shall  eat  and  drink  at  my 
side.  And,  verily,  I  shall  show  him  a  sea  in  which  he 
can  be  drowned  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  And  then  for  a  long 
while  he  gazed  into  the  face  of  the  disciple  who  had 
been  the  interpreter  of  his  dream — shaking  his  head. 


When  Zarathustra  one  day  crossed  the  large  bridge, 
cripples  and  beggars  surrounded  him,  and  a  hunchback 
thus  spake  unto  him  : 

"  Behold,  Zarathustra !  Even  the  folk  learn  from  thee 
and  learn  belief  in  thy  teaching.  But  in  order  that 
they  may  believe  thee  entirely,  one  thing  more  is 
wanted — first  thou  must  persuade  us  cripples!  Here 
thou  hast  now  a  beautiful  selection,  and,  verily,  an 
opportunity  with  more  than  one  forelock  to  catch  it 
by.  Thou  mightest  heal  the  blind  and  make  the  lame 
run,  and  thou  mightest  also  perhaps  take  a  little  from 
him  who  hath  too  much  behind  him.  That,  I  think, 
would  be  the  proper  way  to  make  the  cripples  believe 
in  Zarathustra ! " 

But  Zarathustra  replied  thus  unto  him  who  had 
spoken :  "  If  one  taketh  the  hunch  from  the  hunchback, 
one  taketh  his  spirit  away.  Thus  the  folk  teach.  And 
if  one  giveth  the  blind  one  his  eyes,  he  seeth  too  many 
bad  things  on  earth,  so  that  he  curseth  him  who  hath 
healed  him.  But  he  who  maketh  the  lame  one  run, 


hurteth  him  sorely;  for  just  when  he  hath  learnt  to 
run,  his  vices  run  away  with  him.  Thus  the  folk 
teach  about  cripples.  And  why  should  not  Zarathustra 
learn  from  the  folk,  what  the  folk  learn  from  Zara- 
thustra ? 

But  it  is  of  the  least  moment  for  me  since  I  came 
to  live  among  men,  to  see:  these  are  lacking  an" 
eye,  and  that  man  is  lacking  an  ear,  and  a  third  one 
is  lacking  a  leg,  and  there  are  others  who  have  lost 
the  tongue  or  the  nose  or  the  head. 

I  see  and  have  seen  worse  things  and  many  kinds 
of  things  so  abominable  that  I  should  not  like  to  speak 
of  all  things ;  and  about  some  I  should  not  even  stand 
silent:  namely  men  who  are  lacking  everything  except 
that  they  have  one  thing  too  much ;  men  who  are 
nothing  but  a  great  eye,  or  a  great  mouth,  or  a  great 
womb,  or  something  else  great.  Reversed  cripples  I 
call  such. 

And  when  I  came  out  of  my  solitude  and  crossed 
this  bridge  for  the  first  time  I  trusted  not  mine  eyes, 
and  gazed  there  again  and  again,  and  said  at  last: 
'  That  is  an  ear,  an  ear  as  great  as  a  man ! '  I  gazed 
there  still  more  thoroughly.  And  really,  under  the  ear 
something  moved,  which  was  pitifully  small  and  poor 
and  slender.  And,  truly,  that  immense  ear  was  carried 
by  a  small,  thin  stalk  ;  and  the  stalk  was  a  man !  He 
who  would  put  a  glass  before  his  eye  could  even  re- 
cognise a  small  envious  face ;  also  that  a  little  bloated 


soul  was  hanging  down  from  the  stalk.  The  folk, 
however,  informed  me  that  that  great  ear  was  not  only 
a  man,  but  a  great  man,  a  genius.  But  I  never  be- 
lieved the  folk  when  they  spake  of  great  men — and 
kept  my  belief  that  he  was  a  reversed  cripple  who 
had  too  little  of  all  things  and  too  much  of  one 

Having  thus  spoken  unto  the  hunchback  and  unto 
those  whose  mouthpiece  and  advocate  that  man  was, 
Zarathustra  turned  unto  his  disciples  in  deep  distress 
and  said: 

"  Verily,  my  friends,  I  walk  among  men  as  among 
the  fragments  and  limbs  of  men ! 

This  is  the  dreadful  thing  for  mine  eye,  that  I  find 
man  broken  into  pieces  and  scattered  as  over  a  battle 
field  and  a  butcher's  shambles. 

And  when  mine  eye  fleeth  from  to-day  into  the 
past  it  findeth  always  the  same:  fragments  and  limbs 
and  dismal  accidents,  but  no  men! 

The  present  and  the  past  on  earth — alas !  my  friends, 
— these  are  what  /  find  most  intolerable.  And  I  should 
not  know  how  to  live,  if  I  were  not  a  prophet  of 
what  must  come. 

A  prophet,  a  willing  one,  a  creator,  a  veritable 
future,  and  a  bridge  unto  the  future — and  alas!  be- 
sides, as  it  were,  a  cripple  at  that  bridge.  All  these 
things  is  Zarathustra. 

And    ye    also    asked    yourselves :   '  Who    is   Zara- 


thustra  for  us?  How  is  he  to  be  called  by  us?'  And 
as  I  do,  ye  gave  yourselves  questions  for  answer. 

Is  he  one  who  promiseth?  Or  one  who  fulfilleth? 
One  who  conquereth?  Or  one  who  inheriteth?  An 
autumn  ?  Or  a  plough  ?  A  physician  ?  Or  a  con- 
valescent ? 

Is  he  a  poet  ?  Or  a  truthful  one  ?  A  liberator  ?  Or 
a  subduer?  One  who  is  good?  Or  one  who  is  bad? 

I  walk  among  men  as  among  the  fragments  of  the 
future,  of  that  future  which  I  see. 

And  all  my  thought  and  striving  is  to  compose 
and  gather  into  one  thing  what  is  a  fragment  and  a 
riddle  and  a  dismal  accident. 

And  how  could  I  bear  to  be  a  man,  if  man  was 
not  a  poet  and  a  solver  of  riddles  and  the  saviour  of 
accident ! 

To  save  the  past  ones  and  to  change  every  '  It 
was'  into  a  'Thus  I  would  have  it' — that  alone 
would  mean  salvation  for  me! 

Will — that  is  the  name  of  the  liberator  and  bringer 
of  joy.  Thus  I  taught  you,  my  friends !  But  now  learn 
this  in  addition :  will  itself  is  still  a  prisoner. 

Willing  delivereth.  But  what  is  the  name  of  that 
which  putteth  into  chains  even  the  liberator? 

'It  was;'  thus  the  gnashing  of  the  teeth  and  the 
loneliest  affliction  of  will  are  named.  Impotent  against 
what  hath  been  done,  it  is  an  evil  spectator  of  all 
that  is  past. 


Will  is  unable  to  will  anything  in  the  past.  That 
it  cannot  break  time  and  the  desire  of  time, — that  is 
the  loneliest  affliction  of  will. 

Willing  delivereth.  What  doth  willing  itself  invent 
in  order  to  get  rid  of  its  affliction  and  mock  at  its 
prison  ? 

Alas,  every  prisoner  becometh  a  fool!  Foolishly, 
likewise,  imprisoned  will  delivereth  itself. 

That  time  doth  not  go  backwards,  that  is  will's 
wrath.  'What  was' — is  the  name  of  the  stone  it  can- 
not turn. 

And  thus  it  turneth  stones  out  of  wrath  and  in- 
dignation and  taketh  revenge  on  what  doth  not  feel 
wrath  and  indignation  like  it. 

Thus  will,  the  liberator,  became  a  causer  of  pain. 
And  on  all  that  is  able  to  suffer,  it  taketh  revenge  for 
being  unable  to  enter  the  past. 

This,  this  alone,  is  revenge:  will's  abhorrence  of 
time  and  its  '  It  was.' 

Verily,  great  folly  liveth  in  our  will;  and  it  became 
a  curse  for  all  that  is  human,  that  that  folly  learned 
how  to  have  spirit! 

The  spirit  of  revenge — my  friends,  that  hath  hitherto 
been  the  best  meditation  of  men.  And  wherever  there 
was  affliction,  there  punishment  was  supposed  to  be. 

'Punishment' — thus  revenge  calleth  itself.  With  a 
word  of  lying,  it  feigneth  a  good  conscience  for  itself. 

And  because  there  is  affliction  in  the  willing  one, 



because  he  cannot  will  backwards — all  willing  and  all 
living  were  supposed  to  be  punishment! 

And  now  one  cloud  after  another  hath  rolled  over 
the  spirit,  until  at  last  madness  preached :  '  Everything 
perisheth,  therefore  all  is  worthy  to  perish ! ' 

'And  this  law  of  time  is  justice,  that  time  must 
devour  its  own  children.'  Thus  madness  preached. 

'Morally  things  are  arranged  according  to  right 
and  punishment.  Oh !  where  is  the  salvation  from  the 
current  of  things  and  the  '  existence '  of  punishment  ? ' 
Thus  madness  preached. 

'  Can  there  be  salvation  if  there  is  an  eternal  right  ? 
Alas,  unturnable  is  the  stone  "  It  was !  "  Eternal  must  be 
all  punishments ! '  Thus  madness  preached. 

'No  action  can  be  annihilated.  How  could  it  be 
undone  by  punishment!  This,  this,  is  what  is  eternal 
in  the  punishment  of  "  existence,"  that  existence  itself 
must  eternally  be  again  action  and  guilt! 

Unless  it  should  be,  that  at  last  will  would  save 
itself,  and  willing  would  become  not-willing.'  But  ye 
know,  my  brethren  this  fabulous  song  of  madness  ! 

I  led  you  away  from  those  fabulous  songs,  when 
I  taught  you:  'All  will  is  a  creator.' 

All  '  It  was '  is  a  fragment,  a  riddle,  a  dismal  acci- 
dent until  a  creating  will  saith  unto  it :  '  Thus  I  would 
have  it ! ' 

Until  a  creating  will  saith  unto  it :  '  Thus  I  will  ! 
Thus  I  shall  will!' 


But  did  it  ever  speak  thus?  And  when  doth  that 
happen?  Hath  will  been  unharnessed  yet  from  its 
own  folly? 

Hath  will  become  its  own  saviour  and  bringer  of 
joy?  Hath  it  unlearnt  the  spirit  of  revenge  and  the 
gnashing  of  teeth? 

And  who  taught  it  reconciliation  with  time  and 
something  higher  than  all  reconciliation  is? 

Something  higher  than  all  reconciliation  is,  must 
be  willed  by  the  will  that  is  will  unto  power.  But  how 
doth  that  happen  unto  it  ?  And  who  taught  it  that 
willing  into  the  past?" 

But  at  this  place  of  his  speech  it  came  to  pass  that 
Zarathustra  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  like  unto 
one  who  is  sore  afraid.  With  a  terrified  eye  he  looked 
upon  his  disciples.  As  it  were  with  arrows,  his  eye 
pierced  their  thoughts  and  back-thoughts.  But  after  a 
short  while  he  again  laughed  and  said  appeased: 

"  It  is  difficult  to  live  with  men  because  silence  is 
so  difficult.  Especially  for  a  talkative  person." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  But  the  hunchback  had 
listened  unto  the  conversation  with  his  face  covered  over. 
Yet  when  he  heard  Zarathustra  laugh  he  looked  up 
curiously  and  said  slowly  : 

"  But  why  doth  Zarathustra  speak  unto  us  in  differ- 
ent wise  from  that  in  which  he  speaketh  unto  his  dis- 
ciples ?  " 


Zarathustra  answered :  "  What  cause  is  there  for 
astonishment  ?  With  the  hunchback,  one  may  well 
speak  in  a  hunchbacked  way  ! " 

"  Good  and  well,"  said  the  hunchback ;  "  and  among 
schoolfellows  one  may  well  talk  of  school. 

But  why  doth  Zarathustra  speak  in  different  wise 
unto  his  disciples  from  that — in  which  he  speaketh 
unto  himself?" 


"  Not  the  height,  the  declivity  is  the  terrible  thing  ! 

The  declivity  where  the  glance  hurleth  down,  and 
the  hand  graspeth  up.  There  the  heart  becometh 
dizzy  from  its  double  will. 

Alas,  friends,  do  ye  guess  rightly  the  double  will 
of  my  heart  ? 

This,  this  is  my  declivity  and  my  danger,  that  my 
glance  hurleth  up,  and  my  hand  would  fain  clutch  and 
lean  upon — depth  ! 

My  will  clingeth  round  man  ;  with  chains  I  bind 
myself  unto  man  because  I  am  torn  upwards  unto 
beyond-man.  For  thither  mine  other  will  is  longing. 

And  for  this  purpose  I  live  blind  among  men  as 
though  I  did  not  know  them  ;  that  my  hand  might 
not  lose  entirely  its  belief  in  what  is  firm. 

I  know  not  you  men  ;  this  darkness  and  comfort 
is  frequently  spread  out  over  me. 

I  am  sitting  at  the  gateway  for  every  villain  and 
ask  :  '  Who  is  going  to  deceive  me  ? ' 


My  first  manly  prudence  is  that  I  admit  myself 
to  be  deceived  in  order  not  to  be  compelled  to  guard 
myself  from  deceivers. 

Alas,  if  I  guarded  myself  from  man  how  could 
man  be  an  anchor  for  my  ball !  Much  too  easily 
would  I  be  drawn  upwards  and  away  ! 

This  providence  hangeth  over  my  fate,  that  I  must 
be  without  caution. 

And  whoever  wisheth  not  to  die  of  thirst  among 
men,  must  learn  to  drink  out  of  all  glasses ;  and  who- 
ever wisheth  to  remain  clean  among  men,  must  under- 
stand to  wash  himself  even  with  dirty  water. 

Thus  I  often  spake  unto  myself  comforting :  '  Up ! 
up!  old  heart!  A  misfortune  of  thine  hath  failed. 
Enjoy  that  as  thy  happiness ! ' 

But  this  is  mine  other  manly  prudence:  I  spare 
the  conceited  more  than  the  proud. 

Is  not  wounded  conceit  the  mother  of  all  tragedies  ? 
But  where  pride  is  wounded,  there  groweth  up  some- 
thing better  than  pride. 

In  order  that  life  may  be  a  fine  spectacle,  its  play 
must  be  played  well.  But  for  that  purpose  good  actors 
are  required. 

Good  actors,  I  found,  all  the  conceited  are.  They 
play  and  wish  that  folk  may  like  to  look  at  their 
playing.  All  their  spirit  is  in  this  will. 

They  act  themselves,  they  invent  themselves ;  close  by 
them  I  like  to  look  at  life's  play, — it  cureth  melancholy. 



Therefore  I  spare  all  the  conceited,  because  they 
are  physicians  of  my  melancholy  and  keep  me  tied  fast 
unto  man  as  unto  a  spectacle. 

And  then :  in  the  conceited  one,  who  could  measure 
the  entire  depth  of  his  modesty !  I  am  favourable  and 
sympathetic  towards  him  because  of  his  modesty. 

From  you  he  wisheth  to  learn  his  belief  in  him- 
self; he  feedeth  from  your  glances,  he  eateth  praise 
off  your  hands. 

He  even  believeth  your  lies  when  ye  lie  well  about 
him.  For  in  its  depths  his  heart  sigheth :  '  What 

And  if  that  is  the  right  virtue,  which  knoweth  not 
about  itself:  now,  the  conceited  one  knoweth  not 
about  his  modesty! 

But  this  is  my  third  manly  prudence,  that  I  allow 
not  the  sight  of  the  wicked  to  be  made  disagreeable 
through  your  fear. 

I  am  blessed  in  seeing  the  marvels  which  hot  sun- 
shine breedeth :  tigers  and  palm-trees  and  rattle-snakes. 

Among  men  there  is  a  beautiful  brood  from  the 
hot  sunshine,  and  in  the  wicked  there  are  many 
astonishing  things. 

Let  me  confess:  as  your  wisest  men  did  not  ap- 
pear unto  me  to  be  so  very  wise,  so  I  found  men's 
wickedness  much  less  than  the  fame  of  it. 

And  often  I  asked  with  a  shaking  of  my  head: 
'  Why  rattle  still,  ye  rattle-snakes  ? ' 


Verily,  even  for  what  is  wicked  there  is  still  a 
future !  And  the  hottest  south  hath  not  yet  been  dis- 
covered for  man. 

How  many  things  are  at  present  called  highest 
wickedness,  which  are  only  twelve  shoes  broad  and 
three  months  long !  One  day,  however,  bigger  dragons 
will  come  into  the  world. 

For,  in  order  that  beyond-man  may  not  lack  a 
dragon,  a  beyond-dragon  that  is  worthy  of  him,  much 
hot  sunshine  must  glow  over  damp  primeval  forest! 

Out  of  your  wild  cats  tigers  must  have  grown 
and  crocodiles  out  of  your  poisonous  toads.  For  the 
good  hunter  shall  have  a  good  hunt! 

And,  verily,  ye  good  and  just!  Much  in  you 
is  laughable  and  especially  your  fear  of  what  hath 
hitherto  been  called  'devil!' 

What  is  great  is  so  strange  unto  your  soul,  that 
beyond-man  would  be  terrible  unto  you  by  his  kindness ! 

And  ye  wise  and  knowing  men,  ye  would  flee  from 
the  burning  sun  of  wisdom,  in  which  beyond-man 
rejoiceth  to  bathe  his  nakedness! 

Ye  highest  men  with  whom  mine  eye  hath  met! 
This  is  my  doubt  as  regardeth  you,  and  my  secret 
laughter:  I  guess,  my  beyond-man  ye  would  call— 
'  devil ! ' 

Alas,  I  have  grown  weary  of  these  highest  and 
best !  From  their  '  height '  I  longed  to  rise  upwards, 
out,  away  unto  beyond-man ! 



A  terror  overcame  me  when  I  saw  these  best  men 
naked.  Then  wings  grew  unto  me  to  fly  away  into 
remote  futures. 

Into  more  remote  futures,  into  more  southern 
souths  than  artist  ever  dreamt  of:  thither  where  Gods 
are  ashamed  of  all  clothing ! 

But  I  wish  to  see  you  disguised,  ye  neighbours  and 
fellow-men,  and  well  adorned,  and  vain,  and  worthy, 
as  '  the  good  and  just,'— 

And  disguised  I  will  sit  among  you  myself,  in  order 
to  mistake  you  and  myself.  For  this  is  my  last  manly 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"What  hath  happened  unto  me,  my  friends?  Ye 
see  me  troubled,  driven  away,  unwillingly  obedient, 
ready  to  go — alas,  to  go  away  from  you  ! 

Yea,  once  more  Zarathustra  hath  to  go  into  his 
solitude!  But  this  time  the  bear  goeth  back  into  its 
cave  sadly ! 

What  hath  happened  unto  me  ?  Who  commandeth 
this  ?  Alas,  mine  angry  mistress  wisheth  it  to  be  thus ! 
She  spake  unto  me.  Did  I  ever  mention  her  name 
unto  you? 

Yester-even  my  stillest  hour  spake  unto  me.  That 
is  the  name  of  my  terrible  mistress. 

And  thus  it  happened.  (For  everything  must  I  tell 
you,  that  your  heart  may  not  harden  towards  him 
who  taketh  sudden  leave!) 

Know  ye  the  terror  of  him  who  falleth  asleep  ? 

Unto  his  very  toes  he  is  terrified  by  the  ground 
giving  way  and  the  dream  beginning. 

This  I  tell  you  as  a  parable.  Yesterday  at  the 
stillest  hour,  the  ground  gave  way  beneath  me:  the 
dream  began. 


The  hand  moved  on,  the  clock  of  my  life  took 
breath.  Never  did  I  hear  such  stillness  round  me. 
Thus  my  heart  was  terrified. 

Then  it  was  said  unto  me  without  a  voice:  'Thou 
knowest  it,  Zarathustra  ?  ' 

And  I  yelled  with  terror  at  that  whispering,  and 
the  blood  went  out  of  my  face,  but  I  was  speechless. 

Then  it  was  again  said  unto  me  without  a  voice: 
'  Thou  knowest  it,  Zarathustra,  but  thou  speakest  not ! ' 

And  at  last  I  answered  like  a  spiteful  one :  '  Yea, 
I  know  it,  but  wish  not  to  pronounce  it ! ' 

Then  it  was  again  said  unto  me:  'Thou  wishest 
not,  Zarathustra?  Is  that  true?  Conceal  not  thyself 
behind  thy  spite ! ' 

But  I  wept  and  trembled  like  a  child  and  said: 
'Alas,  I  should  wish,  but  how  can  I  do  it!  Exempt 
me  from  this  one  thing !  It  is  beyond  my  power ! ' 

Then  it  was  again  said  unto  me  without  a  voice: 
'  What  matter  about  thyself,  Zarathustra !  Say  thy 
word  and  break  into  pieces ! ' 

And  I  answered:  'Alas,  is  it  my  word?  Who 
am  If  I  wait  for  a  worthier  one;  I  am  not  worthy 
to  be  broken  into  pieces  even  from  that  word.' 

Then  it  was  again  said  unto  me  without  a  voice : 
'What  matter  about  thyself?  Thou  art  not  yet 
humble  enough.  Humility  hath  the  thickest  skin.' 

And  I  answered:  'What  hath  not  been  borne  by 
the  skin  of  my  humility !  At  the  foot  of  my  height 


I  dwell.  How  high  my  summits  are  ?    How  high,  no  one 
hath  yet  told  me.    But  well  I  know  my  valleys.' 

Then  it  was  again  said  unto  me  without  a  voice : 
'O  Zarathustra,  he  who  hath  to  move  mountains  mov- 
eth  valleys  and  low  lands  as  well.' 

And  I  answered:  'Not  yet  hath  my  word  moved 
any  mountains,  and  what  I  spake  hath  not  reached 
men.  Although  I  went  unto  men,  not  yet  have  I 
reached  them.' 

Then  it  was  again  said  unto  me  without  a  voice: 
'  What  knowest  thou  of  that  ?  The  dew  falleth  upon 
the  grass  when  the  night  is  most  silent.' 

And  I  answered:  'They  mocked  at  me  when  I 
found  and  went  mine  own  way.  And  in  truth  my  feet 
trembled  then.' 

And  thus  they  spake  unto  me:  'Thou  unlearnedst 
the  path ;  now  thou  also  unlearnest  walking ! ' 

Then  it  was  again  said  unto  me  without  a  voice: 
'What  matter  for  their  mocking?  Thou  art  one  who 
hath  unlearnt  obedience:  now  thou  shalt  command! 

Knowest  thou  not  who  is  required  most  by  all? 
He  who  commandeth  great  things. 

To  do  great  things  is  hard ;  but  to  command  great 
things  is  still  harder. 

This  is  what  is  most  unpardonable  in  thee:  thou 
hast  the  power  and  wantest  not  to  rule.' 

And  I  answered:  'I  lack  a  lion's  voice  for  com- 


Then  it  was  again  said  unto  me  like  a  whispering: 
'The  stillest  words  bring  the  storm.  Thoughts  which 
come  on  doves'  feet  rule  the  world. 

O  Zarathustra,  thou  shalt  go  as  a  shadow  of  what 
must  come.  Thus  thou  wilt  command  and  go  in  the 
front  commanding.' 

And  I  answered:  'I  am  ashamed.' 

Then  it  was  again  said  unto  me  without  a  voice : 
'  Thou  hast  still  to  become  a  child  and  without  sense 
of  shame. 

The  pride  of  youth  is  still  upon  thee  ;  very  late 
hast  thou  become  young.  And  whoever  wanteth  to  be- 
come a  child  must  overcome  even  his  youth.' 

And  I  meditated  a  long  while  and  trembled.  But 
at  last  I  said  what  I  had  said  first :  '  I  wish  not.' 

Then  a  laughter  brake  out  around  me.  Alas,  how 
the  laughter  tore  mine  intestines  and  ripped  up  my 

And  it  was  said  unto  me  for  the  last  time :  '  O  Zara- 
thustra, thy  fruits  are  ripe,  but  thou  art  not  ripe  for 
thy  fruits! 

Thus  thou  must  again  go  into  solitude;  for  thou 
shalt  become  mellow.' 

And  again  there  was  laughter ;  and  then  it  fled. 
Then  there  was  stillness  around  me,  as  it  were,  with 
a  twofold  stillness.  But  I  lay  on  the  ground,  and  the 
sweat  flow^ed  down  my  limbs. 

Now  ye  have  heard  all,  and  why  I  have  to  return 


into  my  solitude.  Nothing  I  kept  hidden  from  you, 
my  Mends. 

Ye  have  indeed  heard  it  from  me  who  am  still  the 
most  discreet  of  men — and  will  be  so! 

Alas,  my  friends!  I  should  have  more  to  tell  you, 
I  should  have  more  to  give  you!  Why  do  I  give  it 
not?  Am  I  miserly?" 

When  Zarathustra  had  said  these  words  the  power 
of  pain  and  the  nighness  of  the  leavetaking  from  his 
friends  surprised  him  so  that  he  wept  aloud;  and  no- 
body could  comfort  him.  But  at  night  he  went  off 
alone  and  left  his  friends. 


"  Ye  look  upward  -when  longing  to  be  ex- 
alted. And  I  look  down-ward  because  I  am 

Which  of  you  can  at  the  same  time  laugh 
and  be  exalted? 

He  who  strideth  across  the  highest  moun- 
tains laugheth  at  all  tragedies  whether  of 
the  stage  or  of  life." 

Zarathustra,  I 
Of  Reading  and  Writing 


It  was  about  midnight  that  Zarathustra  took  his 
way  over  the  back  of  the  island  in  order  to  arrive 
early  in  the  morning  at  the  other  shore.  For  there  he 
intended  to  go  on  board  a  ship.  For  there  was  a  good 
roadstead  at  which  foreign  ships  liked  to  cast  anchor. 
They  took  with  them  many  a  one  who  from  the  bliss- 
ful islands  desired  to  go  over  sea.  Now  when  thus 
mounting  the  hill  Zarathustra  thought  on  his  way  of 
his  many  lonely  wanderings  from  his  youth,  and  how 
many  hills  and  mountain  ridges  and  summits  had  been 
ascended  by  him. 

"  I  am  a  wanderer  and  a  mountain-climber,"  said 
he  unto  his  heart;  "  I  like  not  the  plains,  and  it  seemeth 
I  cannot  long  sit  still. 

And  whatever  may  become  my  fate  and  experi- 
ence,— a  wandering  and  a  mountain-climbing  will  be 
part  of  it.  In  the  end  one  experienceth  nothing  but 
one's  self. 

The  time  is  past  when  accidents  could  happen 
unto  me.  And  what  could  now  fall  unto  my  share 
that  is  not  already  mine  own ! 


It  merely  returneth,  it  at  last  cometh  home  unto 
me — mine  own  self,  and  whatever  of  it  hath  been  for 
a  long  time  abroad  and  hath  been  dispersed  among 
all  things  and  accidents. 

And  one  more  thing  I  know:  now  I  stand  be- 
fore my  last  summit  and  before  that  which  hath  been 
longest  reserved  for  me.  Alas,  I  must  ascend  my 
hardest  path !  Alas,  I  have  begun  my  loneliest  wander- 

But  whoever  is  of  my  kin  escapeth  not  such  an 
hour,  an  hour  which  speaketh  unto  him:  'It  is  only 
now  that  thou  goest  the  way  of  thy  greatness !  Sum- 
mit and  precipice — these  are  now  contained  in  one! 

Thou  goest  the  way  of  thy  greatness.  Now  what 
was  called  hitherto  thy  last  danger  hath  become  thy 
last  refuge  ! 

Thou  goest  the  way  of  thy  greatness.  Thy  best 
courage  must  now  be  that  behind  thee  there  is  no 
further  path  ! 

Thou  goest  the  way  of  thy  greatness.  Hither  no 
one  shall  steal  after  thee  !  Thy  foot  itself  extinguished 
the  path  behind  thee,  and  above  it  there  standeth 
written  :  '  Impossibility.' 

And  if  thou  now  lackest  all  ladders  thou  must 
know  how  to  mount  thine  own  head.  Otherwise,  how 
couldst  thou  ascend  ? 

Thine  own  head,  and  past  thine  own  heart !  Now 
what  is  mildest  in  thee  must  become  hardest. 


Whoever  hath  spared  himself  always,  at  last  aileth 
because  of  his  sparing  himself  so  much.  Let  that 
which  maketh  hard  be  praised.  I  do  not  praise  the 
land  where  there — flow  butter  and  honey  ! 

In  order  to  see  much  it  is  necessary  to  learn  to 
forget  one's  self.  This  hardness  is  requisite  for  every 

But  whoever  is  forward  with  his  eyes  as  a  per- 
ceiver,  how  could  he  see  more  than  the  foremost  reasons 
of  all  things  ! 

But  thou,  O  Zarathustra,  desiredst  to  see  the  ground 
and  background  of  ah1  things.  Thus  thou  art  compelled 
to  mount  above  thyself,  up,  upwards,  until  thou  seest 
below  thyself  even  thy  stars  ! 

Ay,  to  look  down  unto  one's  self  and  even  unto 
one's  stars  :  only  that  would  I  call  my  summit,  that 
hath  been  reserved  for  me  as  my  last  summit." 

Thus  Zarathustra  spake  unto  himself,  ascending, 
comforting  his  heart  with  hard  little  sayings  ;  for  his 
heart  was  sore  as  it  had  never  been.  And  when  he 
reached  the  top  of  the  mountain  ridge,  lo  !  the  other 
sea  lay  spread  out  before  him.  And  he  stood  still  and 
kept  silence  for  a  long  time.  But  the  night  was  cold 
on  that  height,  and  clear  and  bright  with  stars. 

"  I  recognise  my  lot,"  at  last  he  said  sadly.  "  Up  ! 
I  am  ready.  My  last  loneliness  hath  just  begun. 

Oh,  that  black,  sad  sea  below  me  !    Oh,  that  black, 


nightlike  peevishness  !  Oh,  fate  and  sea !  Now  I 
have  to  step  down  unto  you  ! 

Before  my  highest  mountain  I  stand,  and  before 
my  longest  wandering.  Therefore  I  must  first  descend 
deeper  than  I  ever  ascended — 

Descend  deeper  into  pain,  than  I  ever  ascended 
until  I  reach  its  blackest  flood.  Thus  my  fate  willeth. 
Up  !  I  am  ready. 

'  Whence  spring  the  highest  mountains  ? '  Thus  I 
once  asked.  Then  I  learned  that  they  spring  from 
the  sea. 

This  testimony  is  written  in  their  stones  and  in 
the  walls  of  their  summits.  Out  of  the  greatest  depth 
the  highest  must  rise  unto  its  height." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  on  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  where  it  was  cold.  But  when  he  came  nigh 
unto  the  sea,  and  at  last  stood  alone  among  the  cliffs, 
he  had  grown  weary  on  the  way  and  felt  a  deeper 
longing  than  ever  before. 

"Now  everything  is  asleep,"  said  he.  "The  sea  is 
asleep  also.  Full  of  sleep  and  strange  its  eye  gazeth 
at  me. 

But  warm  is  its  breath,  I  feel  it.  And  I  also  feel 
that  it  dreameth.  Dreamy  it  tosseth  to  and  fro  on  its 
hard  pillows. 

Hearken  !  Hearken !  How  it  groaneth  with  evil 
reminiscences  !  Or  with  evil  expectations  ? 


Oh,  I  am  sad  with  thee,  thou  dark  monster,  and 
I  am  angry  at  myself  even  for  thy  sake. 

Alas,  that  my  hand  hath  not  strength  enough!  Fain, 
truly,  would  I  redeem  thee  from  evil  dreams  ! " 

And  while  thus  speaking  Zarathustra  laughed  with 
melancholy  and  bitterness  at  himself.  "  What  !  Zara- 
thustra ! "  said  he.  "Art  thou  about  to  sing  comfort 
even  unto  the  sea  ? 

Oh,  thou  kind-hearted  fool  Zarathustra,  thou  who 
art  all-too-full  of  confidence  !  But  thus  thou  hast 
always  been  :  familiarly  thou  hast  ever  approached 
unto  all  that  was  terrible. 

Thou  wert  about  to  caress  every  monster.  A 
whiff  of  warm  breath,  a  little  soft  shaggy  hah*  at 
the  paw, — and  at  once  thou  wert  ready  to  love  and 
decoy  it. 

Love  is  the  danger  of  the  loneliest  one,  love  unto 
everything  if  it  only  live.  Laughable,  verily,  is  my 
folly  and  my  modesty  in  love  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  laughing  withal  a  second 
time.  But  then  he  remembered  his  friends  he  had 
left — ,  and  as  though  he  had  done  wrong  unto  them 
with  his  thoughts,  he  was  angry  with  himself  because 
of  his  thoughts.  And  a  little  later  it  came  to  pass 
that  the  laughing  one  wept.  From  anger  and  longing 
Zarathustra  wept  bitterly. 


When  the  rumour  spread  among  the  shipmen 
that  Zarathustra  was  on  board  the  ship  (for  at  the 
same  time  with  him  a  man  had  come  aboard  who 
came  from  the  blissful  islands),  great  curiosity  and 
expectation  arose.  But  Zarathustra  was  silent  for  two 
days  and  was  cold  and  deaf  from  sadness  so  that  he 
neither  answered  looks  nor  questions.  But  on  the 
evening  of  the  second  day  he  opened  his  ears  again, 
although  he  still  remained  silent.  For  there  were  many 
strange  and  dangerous  things  to  be  heard  on  that 
ship  which  came  from  a  far  distance  and  went  far 
further.  But  Zarathustra  was  a  friend  of  all  such  as 
make  distant  voyages  and  like  not  to  live  without 
danger.  And  lo !  from  listening  at  last  his  own  tongue 
was  loosened  and  the  ice  of  his  heart  brake.  Then  he 
began  to  speak  thus  : 

"  Unto  you,  ye  keen  searchers,  tempters  and  who- 
ever goeth  aboard  a  ship  for  terrible  seas  with  cun- 
ning sails, — 


Unto  you  rejoicers  in  riddles,  who  enjoy  the  twi- 
light ;  whose  soul  is  attracted  by  flutes  unto  every 
labyrinthine  chasm  : 

(For  ye  care  not  to  grope  after  a  thread,  with  a 
coward's  hand  ;  and  where  ye  are  able  to  guess  ye 
hate  to  determine  by  argument?) 

Unto  you  alone  I  tell  this  riddle  which  I  saw — the 
vision  of  the  loneliest  one. 

Mournfully  I  went  of  late  through  a  corpse-coloured 
dawn, — mournfully  and  hard  with  my  lips  pressed  to- 
gether. Not  only  one  sun  had  gone  down  for  me. 

A  path  ascending  defiantly  through  the  boulder- 
stones;  a  wicked,  lonely  path  unto  which  neither  herb 
nor  bushes  spake  ;  a  mountain-path  gnashed  its  teeth 
under  the  scorn  of  my  foot. 

Striding  silently  over  the  scornful  rattling  of  pebbles, 
crushing  with  its  step  the  stone  that  made  it  slip, 
thus  my  foot  forced  its  way  upwards. 

Upwards — in  defiance  of  the  spirit  drawing  it 
downwards,  into  the  abyss — the  spirit  of  gravity,  my 
devil  and  arch-enemy. 

Upwards — although  that  spirit  sat  upon  me,  half 
a  dwarf,  half  a  mole  ;  lame  ;  laming  ;  dropping  lead 
through  mine  ear,  thoughts  as  heavy  as  drops  of  lead 
into  my  brain. 

'  O  Zarathustra,'  it  whispered  scornfully  pronouncing 
syllable  by  syllable.  '  Thou  stone  of  wisdom !  Thou  threw- 
est  thyself  high  up,  but  every  stone  thrown  must — fall! 



0  Zarathustra,  thou  stone   of  wisdom,  thou   sling- 
stone,  thou  destroyer  of  stars  !    Thyself  thou  threwest 
so  high, — but  every  stone  thrown  must — fall ! 

Condemned  unto  thyself  and  thine  own  stoning. 
O  Zarathustra,  far  thou  threwest  the  stone  indeed, — 
but  it  will  fall  back  upon  thyself  / ' 

Then  the  dwarf  was  silent ;  and  that  lasted  long. 
But  his  silence  pressed  me  down  ;  and  being  thus  by 
twos,  verily,  one  is  lonelier  than  being  by  one  ! 

1  ascended,  I  ascended,  I  dreamt,  I  thought, — but 
everything  pressed  upon  me.    Like  a  sick  one  I  was, 
who  is  wearied  by  a  sore  torture,  and  who,  by  a  sorer 
dream,  is  awakened  out  of  his  falling  asleep. 

But  a  thing  is  within  me,  I  call  it  courage.  It  hath 
hitherto  slain  every  evil  mood  of  mine.  This  courage 
bade  me  at  last  stand  still  and  say  :  '  Dwarf !  Thou  ! 
Or  I!' 

For  courage  is  the  best  murderer, — courage  that 
attacketh.  For  in  every  attack  there  is  a  stirring  music 
of  battle. 

But  man  is  the  most  courageous  animal.  Thereby 
he  hath  conquered  every  animal.  With  stirring  battle- 
music  he  hath  conquered  every  pain  ;  but  human  pain 
is  the  sorest  pain. 

Courage  even  slayeth  giddiness  nigh  abysses.  And 
where  doth  man  not  stand  nigh  abysses  !  Is  the  very 
seeing  not — seeing  abysses  ? 

Courage  is  the  best  murderer  ;  courage  murdereth 


even  pity.  But  pity  is  the  deepest  abyss.  As  deep  as 
man  looketh  into  life,  so  deep  he  looketh  into  suffer- 

But  courage  is  the  best  murderer,  courage  that 
attacketh  ;  it  murdereth  even  death,  for  it  saith  :  '  Was 
that  life  ?  Up  !  Once  more  ! ' 

In  such  a  saying  is  much  stirring  battle-music.  He 
who  hath  ears  to  hear  shall  hear. 

'  Halt !  Dwarf ! '  said  I.  T !  Or  thou  !  But  I  am  the 
stronger  of  us  two.  Thou  knowest  not  mine  abyss- 
like  thought !  Thou  couldst  not  endure  it  /  ' 

Then  came  to  pass  what  made  me  lighter.  For 
the  dwarf  jumped  from  my  shoulder,  the  curious  one ! 
And  he  squatted  on  a  stone  in  front  of  me.  There 
happened  to  be  a  gateway  where  we  stopped. 

'  Look  at  this  gateway  !  Dwarf ! '  I  said  further. 
'  It  hath  two  faces.  Two  roads  meet  here  the  ends  of 
which  no  one  hath  ever  reached. 

This  long  lane  back  :  it  stretcheth  out  for  an  eter- 
nity. And  that  long  lane  out  there — it  is  another 

They  contradict  each  other,  these  roads ;  they 
knock  each  other  directly  on  the  head.  And  here,  at 
this  gateway,  they  meet.  The  name  of  the  gateway 
standeth  written  above  :  "  Moment." 

But  whoever  would  go  along  either  of  them — and 


ever  further  and  ever  more  remote :  believest  thou, 
dwarf,  that  these  roads  contradict  each  other  eter- 
nally ? ' 

'All  that  is  straight,  lieth,'  murmured  the  dwarf  with 
contempt.  'All  truth  is  crooked,  time  itself  is  a  circle.' 

' Thou  spirit  of  gravity  ! '  said  I  angrily,  'do  not 
make  things  too  easy  for  thyself !  Otherwise  I  let 
thee  squat  where  thou  squattest,  lame  leg, — and  I 
have  carried  thee  high  up  \ 

'Behold,'  I  continued,  'this  moment!  From  this 
gateway  called  moment  a  long,  eternal  lane  runneth 
backward:  behind  us  lieth  an  eternity. 

Must  not  all  that  can  run  of  things  have  run  al- 
ready through  this  lane?  Must  not  what  can  happen 
of  things  have  happened,  have  been  done  and  have 
run  past  here? 

And  if  all  things  have  happened  already:  what 
dost  thou  dwarf  think  of  this  moment  ?  Must  not  this 
gateway  have  existed  previously  also  ? 

And  are  not  thus  all  things  knotted  fast  together 
that  this  moment  draweth  behind  it  all  future  things? 
Consequently — draweth  itself,  as  well? 

For  what  can  run  of  things — in  that  long  lane  out 
there,  it  must  run  once  more! 

And  this  slow  spider  creeping  in  the  moonshine, 
and  this  moonshine  itself,  and  I  and  thou  in  the  gate- 
way whispering  together,  whispering  of  eternal  things, 
must  not  we  all  have  existed  once  in  the  past? 


And  must  not  we  recur  and  run  in  that  other 
lane,  out  there,  before  us,  in  that  long  haunted  lane — 
must  we  not  recur  eternally?' 

Thus  I  spake  and  ever  more  gently.  For  I  was 
afraid  of  mine  own  thoughts  and  back-thoughts.  Then, 
suddenly,  I  heard  a  dog  howl  nigh  unto  the  place. 

Did  I  ever  hear  a  dog  howl  like  that  ?  My  thought 
went  back.  Yea !  When  I  was  a  child,  in  my  remotest 

Then  I  heard  a  dog  howl  like  that.  And  I  saw 
it  as  well,  with  its  hair  bristled,  its  head  turned  up- 
wards, trembling,  in  the  stillest  midnight  when  even 
the  dogs  believe  in  ghosts — 

So  that  I  felt  pity  for  it.  For  that  very  moment 
the  full  moon  in  deadly  silence  passed  the  house  ;  that 
very  moment  she  stood  still,  a  round  glow, — still  on 
the  flat  roof,  as  if  she  stood  on  strange  property. 

Thereby  the  dog  had  been  terrified ;  for  dogs  be- 
lieve in  thieves  and  ghosts.  And  when  I  heard  that 
howling  again,  I  felt  pity  once  more. 

Whither  had  the  dwarf  gone?  And  the  gateway? 
And  the  spider  ?  And  all  the  whispering  ?  Did  I 
dream?  Did  I  awake?  Between  wild  cliffs  I  stood 
suddenly,  alone,  lonely,  in  the  loneliest  moonshine. 

But  there  lay  a  man  !  And  there !  The  dog,  jump- 
ing, with  its  hair  bristled,  whimpering, — now  it  saw 
me  come.  Then  it  howled  again,  then  it  cried.  Did 
I  ever  hear  a  dog  cry  thus  for  help? 


And,  verily,  what  I  saw,  the  like  I  had  never  seen. 
A  young  shepherd  I  saw,  writhing,  choking,  quivering, 
with  his  face  distorted,  from  whose  mouth  a  black 
heavy  snake  hung  down. 

Did  I  ever  see  so  much  loathing  and  pale  horror 
in  one  face?  Had  he  slept?  Then  the  serpent  crept 
into  his  throat — and  clung  there  biting. 

My  hand  tore  at  the  serpent  and  tore — in  vain ! 
It  was  unable  to  tear  the  snake  out  of  his  throat. 
Then  something  in  myself  cried  out :  '  Bite !  Bite  ! 

Off  its  head !  Bite ! '  Thus  something  in  myself  cried 
out.  My  horror,  my  hate,  my  loathing,  my  pity,  all 
my  good  and  bad  cried  in  one  cry  out  of  me. 

Ye  keen  ones  around  me !  Ye  searchers,  tempters, 
and  whoever  of  you  goeth  on  board  a  ship  for  unex- 
plored seas  with  cunning  sails !  Ye  rejoicers  in  riddles ! 

Find  out  this  riddle,  which  I  beheld  at  that  time ! 
Interpret  the  vision  of  the  loneliest  one! 

For  a  vision  it  was,  and  a  forecast.  What  did 
I  then  behold  in  a  parable?  And  who  is  he  that 
must  come  one  day? 

Who  is  the  shepherd  whose  throat  was  thus  entered 
by  the  snake?  Who  is  the  man  from  whose  throat 
thus  the  hardest,  blackest  thing  will  have  to  creep 

But  the  shepherd  bit,  as  my  cry  counselled  him ; 
and  with  a  strong  bite !  Far  away  he  spat  the  snake's 
head — and  leaped  up. 


No  longer  a  shepherd,  no  longer  a  man, — a  changed 
one,  one  surrounded  by  light  who  laughed!  Never 
on  earth  hath  a  man  laughed  as  he  did. 

O  my  brethren,  I  heard  a  laughter  that  was  no 
man's  laughter.  And  now  a  thirst  gnaweth  at  me,  a 
longing  that  is  never  stilled. 

My  longing  for  that  laughter  gnaweth  at  me.  Oh, 
how  can  I  endure  still  to  live!  And  how  could  I  en- 
dure to  die  now ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


His  heart  filled  with  such  riddles  and  bitterness, 
Zarathustra  went  over  the  sea.  But  when  he  was 
away  from  the  blissful  islands  and  from  his  friends  a 
four  days'  journey,  he  had  overcome  all  his  pain.  Vic- 
torious and  with  firm  feet  he  again  stood  on  his  fate. 
And  then  Zarathustra  thus  spake  unto  his  rejoicing 
conscience : 

"Alone  am  I  again  and  will  be,  alone  with 
pure  sky  and  free  sea;  and  again  there  is  afternoon 
round  me. 

One  afternoon  I  found  my  friends  for  the  first 
time  ;  another  afternoon  I  found  them  a  second  time, 
at  the  hour  when  all  light  groweth  stiller. 

For  whatever  of  happiness  is  still  on  its  way  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth  seeketh  now  for  its  home  a 
light  soul.  From  happiness  all  light  hath  now  become 

Oh,  afternoon  of  my  life  !    Once  my  happiness  also 


went  down  unto  the  valley  to  look  for  a  home.  Then 
it  found  those  open,  hospitable  souls. 

Oh,  afternoon  of  my  life  !  What  did  I  not  give 
away  in  order  to  have  one  thing :  this  living  plantation 
of  my  thoughts  and  this  morning  light  of  my  highest 
hope  ! 

Companions  once  the  creator  sought  for,  and 
children  of  his  hope.  And  lo  !  it  was  found  that  he 
could  not  find  them  unless  he  would  create  them 

Thus  am  I  in  the  middle  of  my  work,  going  unto 
my  children  and  returning  from  them.  For  the  sake 
of  his  children  Zarathustra  must  complete  himself. 

For  from  the  bottom  one  loveth  nothing  but  one's 
child  and  work  ;  and  where  there  is  great  love  unto 
one's  self,  it  is  the  sign  of  child-bearing.  Thus  I 
found  it. 

Still  my  children  flourish  in  their  first  spring, 
standing  close  together  and  shaken  together  by  the 
winds,  the  trees  of  my  garden  and  of  my  best  soil. 

And,  verily  !  Where  such  trees  stand  close  unto 
each  other,  there  are  blissful  islands  ! 

But  one  day  I  will  take  them  out  of  their  soil  and 
plant  each  of  them  alone,  that  he  may  learn  lone- 
liness and  defiance  and  caution. 

Gnarled  and  crooked  and  with  hardness  that  bend- 
eth,  he  shall  stand  then  by  the  sea,  a  living  lighthouse 
of  life  undestroyable. 


There  where  the  storms  hustle  down  into  the  sea, 
and  the  snout  of  the  mountains  drinketh  water,  each 
of  them  shall  one  day  have  his  day-watches  and  night- 
watches,  for  the  sake  of  his  trial  and  recognition. 

Recognised  and  tried  shall  he  be,  to  find  out 
whether  he  be  of  my  kin  and  descent,  whether  he 
be  the  master  of  a  long  will,  silent  even  when  he 
speaketh,  and  yielding  so  that  he  taketh  in  giving — 

In  order  that  he  one  day  may  become  my  com- 
panion and  one  who  createth  with  me  and  ceaseth 
from  work  with  me  ;  such  a  one  as  writeth  my  will 
on  my  tables  for  the  sake  of  a  fuller  perfection  of 
all  things. 

And  for  his  sake  and  the  sake  of  his  like  I  must 
complete  myself.  Therefore  I  now  avoid  my  happiness 
and  offer  myself  unto  all  misfortune,  for  the  sake  of 
my  last  trial  and  recognition. 

And,  verily,  it  was  time  that  I  went  away.  And 
the  wanderer's  shadow,  and  the  longest  while,  and  the 
stillest  hour,  all  counselled  me  :  '  It  is  high  time  ! ' 

The  wind  blew  through  my  key  hole  saying : 
'  Come  ! '  My  door  cunningly  opened  of  itself  saying : 

But  I  lay  fettered  by  my  love  unto  my  children. 
The  desire  laid  this  trap  for  me — the  desire  for  love 
— that  I  should  become  my  children's  booty,  and  lose 
myself  unto  them. 

Desiring — that  meaneth   in  mine    opinion  to  have 


lost  myself.  /  have  got  you,  my  children  !  In  this 
possessing,  all  shall  be  security,  and  nothing  desir- 

But  brooding  the  sun  of  my  love  lay  upon  me ;  in 
his  own  juice  Zarathustra  stewed.  Then  shadows  and 
doubts  flew  past  me. 

I  longed  for  frost  and  winter  :  '  Would  that  frost 
and  winter  would  make  me  again  crack  and  groan,' 
I  sighed.  Then  icy  fogs  rose  from  me. 

My  past  hath  broken  its  graves ;  many  a  pain 
buried  alive  hath  awakened.  It  had  merely  slept 
its  fill,  hidden  in  corpse's  clothes. 

Thus  all  reminded  me  by  signs  :  '  It  is  time  ! ' 
But  I — heard  not ;  until  at  last  mine  abyss  moved  and 
my  thought  bit  me. 

Oh,  abyss-like  thought  which  art  my  thought  ! 
When  shall  I  find  the  strength  to  hear  thee  dig,  and 
to  tremble  no  more  ? 

Up  to  my  throat  throbbeth  my  heart  when  I  hear 
thee  dig  !  Thy  silence  even  will  throttle  me,  thou  who 
art  silent  as  an  abyss  ! 

Never  yet  have  I  dared  to  call  thee  upward.  It 
was  enough  that  I — carried  thee  with  me  !  Not  yet 
was  I  strong  enough  for  the  utmost  overflowing 
spirit  and  wantonness  of  the  lion. 

Enough  of  horror  for  me  thy  gravity  hath  ever 
been.  But  one  day  yet  shall  I  find  the  strength  and 
the  voice  of  a  lion  to  call  thee  up  ! 


When  once  I  shall  have  overcome  myself  in  this 
respect,  I  shall  also  overcome  myself  in  that  greater 
matter  ;  and  a  victory  shall  be  the  seal  of  my  per- 
fection ! 

In  the  meantime,  I  sail  about  on  uncertain  seas  ; 
chance  flattereth  me  with  its  smooth  tongue  ;  forward 
and  backward  I  gaze,  not  yet  do  I  see  any  end. 

Not  yet  hath  the  hour  of  my  last  struggle  come. 
Or  doth  it  come  this  very  moment  ?  Verily,  round 
about  with  insidious  beauty  sea  and  life  gaze  at  me. 

Oh,  afternoon  of  my  life  !  Oh,  happiness  before 
eventide  !  Oh,  harbour  on  the  open  sea  !  Oh,  peace 
in  what  is  uncertain  !  How  I  mistrust  all  of  you  ! 

Verily,  mistrustful  am  I  of  your  insidious  beauty  ! 
I  am  like  unto  the  lover  who  mistrusteth  a  too  velvety 

As  he  pusheth  before  himself  the  most  beloved 
woman, — tender  even  in  his  hardness,  the  jealous  lover 
— thus  I  push  before  me  this  blissful  hour. 

Away  with  thee,  thou  blissful  hour  !  In  thee  an 
involuntary  bliss  came  unto  me  !  Willing  to  take 
upon  me  my  deepest  pain,  here  I  stand.  At  the  wrong 
time  thou  earnest ! 

Away  with  thee,  thou  blissful  hour  !  Rather  settle 
down  there — with  my  children !  Hurry,  and  bless 
them  before  eventide  with  my  happiness  ! 

There  eventide  approacheth,  the  sun  sinketh.  Gone 
— my  happiness  ! " 


Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  And  he  waited  for  his 
misfortune  the  whole  night ;  but  he  waited  in  vain. 
The  night  remained  clear  and  still,  and  happiness  itself 
drew  nigher  and  nigher  unto  him.  But  towards  the 
morning  Zarathustra  laughed  unto  his  heart  saying 
mockingly  :  "  Happiness  runneth  after  me.  That  result- 
eth  from  my  not  running  after  women.  Happiness  is 
a  woman." 

"  Oh,  sky  above  me  !  Thou  pure  !  Thou  deep !  Thou 
abyss  of  light  !  Gazing  at  thee,  I  quiver  with  god-like 

To  cast  myself  up  unto  thy  height — that  is  my 
profundity  !  To  hide  myself  in  thy  purity — that  is 
mine  innocence  ! 

A  God  is  veiled  by  his  beauty :  thus  thy  stars  are 
hidden  by  thee.  Thou  speakest  not :  thus  thou 
showest  forth  thy  wisdom  unto  me. 

Silent  over  a  roaring  sea  thou  hast  risen  to-day 
unto  me  ;  thy  love  and  thy  shame  utter  a  revelation 
unto  my  roaring  soul. 

That  thou  earnest  unto  me,  beautiful,  veiled  in  thy 
beauty;  that  silent  thou  speakest  unto  me,  manifest  in 
thy  wisdom — 

Oh,  how  should  I  not  guess  all  that  is  full  of  shame 
in  thy  soul !  Before  sunrise  thou  earnest  unto  me, 
the  loneliest  one. 

We  are  friends  from  the  beginning.  Sorrow  and 
horror  and  soil  we  share  ;  even  the  sun  we  share. 


We  do  not  speak  unto  each  other  because  we 
know  too  many  things.  We  stare  silently  at  each 
other ;  smiling  we  declare  our  knowledge  unto  one 

Art  thou  not  the  light  unto  my  fire  ?  Hast  thou 
not  the  sister-soul  unto  mine  insight  ? 

Together  we  have  learnt  everything  ;  together  we 
have  learnt  to  ascend  above  ourselves  unto  ourselves, 
and  to  smile  cloudless — 

To  smile  down  cloudless  from  bright  eyes  and 
from  a  distance  of  many  miles,  when  below  us  com- 
pulsion and  purpose  and  guilt  steam  like  rain. 

And  when  I  wandered  alone,— -for  what  did  my  soul 
hunger  in  nights  and  labyrinthine  paths  ?  And  when 
climbing  mountains, — for  whom  did  I  ever  search,  unless 
for  thee,  on  mountains  ? 

And  all  my  wandering  and  mountain-climbing, — it 
was  only  a  necessity  and  a  make-shift  of  the  helpless 
one.  Flying  is  the  only  thing  my  will  willeth,  flying 
into  thee  ! 

And  whom  could  I  hate  more  than  wandering 
clouds  and  all  that  defileth  thee  !  And  I  even  hated 
mine  own  hatred  because  it  defiled  thee  ! 

I  bear  a  grudge  unto  wandering  clouds,  those 
stealthy  cats  of  prey.  They  take  from  thee  and  me 
what  we  have  in  common, — that  immense,  that  infinite 
saying  of  Yea  and  Amen. 

We  bear  a  grudge  unto  these  mediators  and  mixers, 



the  wandering  clouds  j  those  half-and-half  ones  who 
neither  learnt  how  to  bless  nor  curse  from  the  bottom 
of  their  soul. 

I  will  rather  sit  in  the  barrel,  with  the  sky  shut 
out ;  rather  sit  in  the  abyss  without  a  sky,  than  see 
thee,  sky  of  light,  defiled  with  wandering  clouds  ! 

And  I  often  longed  to  fix  them  with  the  jagged 
gold- wires  of  lightning,  in  order  to  beat  the  kettle- 
drum on  their  kettle-womb,  like  a  thunder  clap, — 

An  angry  kettledrum-beater,  because  they  bereave 
me  of  thy  Yea  and  Amen,  thou  sky  above  me  !  Thou 
pure  !  Thou  bright !  Thou  abyss  of  light !  And  be- 
cause they  bereave  thee  of  my  Yea  and  Amen  ! 

For  rather  I  love  noise  and  lightning  and  the 
curses  of  thunder  than  that  deliberate  doubting  silence 
of  cats.  And  among  men  also  I  hate  most  all  eaves- 
droppers and  half-and-half  ones  and  doubting,  tardy, 
wandering  clouds. 

And  'he  who  cannot  bless  shall  learn  how  to 
curse  ! ' — this  clear  doctrine  fell  unto  me  from  the 
clear  sky;  this  star  standeth  on  my  sky  even  in  black 

But  I  am  one  who  blesseth  and  saith  Yea,  if  thou 
only  art  round  me,  thou  pure  !  Thou  bright !  Thou 
abyss  of  light  !  Then  I  carry  my  Yea-saying  with 
its  blessing  even  into  all  abysses. 

I  have  become  one  who  blesseth  and  saith  Yea. 
And  for  that  purpose  I  struggled  long  and  was  a 


struggler,  in  order  to  get  one  day  my  hands  free  for 

But  this  is  my  blessing :  to  stand  above  every 
thing  as  its  own  sky,  as  its  round  roof,  its  azure  bell 
and  eternal  security.  And  blessed  he  who  blesseth  thus ! 

For  all  things  are  baptised  at  the  well  of  eternity, 
and  beyond  good  and  evil.  But  good  and  evil  them- 
selves are  but  inter-shadows  and  damp  afflictions  and 
wandering  clouds. 

Verily,  it  is  a  blessing  and  not  a  blasphemy,  when 
I  teach  :  'Above  all  things  standeth  the  chance  sky, 
the  innocence  sky,  the  hazard  sky,  the  wantonness  sky.' 

'Sir  Hazard' — that  is  the  earliest  nobility  of  the 
world,  which  I  restored  unto  all  things.  I  saved  them 
from  the  slavery  of  serving  an  end. 

This  freedom  and  clearness  of  sky  I  put  over  all 
things  like  an  azure  bell,  when  I  taught,  that  above 
them  and  through  them  no  '  eternal  will '  willeth. 

This  wantonness  and  this  folly  I  put  in  the  place 
of  that  will  when  I  taught  :  '  In  all  things  one  thing  is 
impossible — reasonableness  ! ' 

A  little  of  reasonableness,  a  seed  of  wisdom  scattered 
from  star  to  star :  it  is  true,  this  leaven  is  mixed 
with  all  things.  For  the  sake  of  folly,  wisdom  is  mixed 
with  all  things  ! 

A  little  of  wisdom  is  well  possible.  But  this  bliss- 
ful security  I  found  in  all  things  :  they  rather  like  to 
dance  with  chance's  feet. 



Oh,  sky  above  me !  Thou  pure !  Thou  high ! 
Therein  consisteth  thy  purity  for  me,  that  there  are 
no  eternal  spiders  of  reason  and  spider's  webs  of  rea- 

That  for  me  thou  art  a  dancing  ground  for  god- 
like chances,  that  for  me  thou  art  a  godlike  table  for 
godlike  dice  and  dice-players  ! 

But  thou  blushest  ?  Spake  I  things  unutterable  ? 
Did  I  revile  whilst  intending  to  bless  thee  ? 

Or  is  it  the  shame  by  two  which  maketh  thee 
blush  ?  Dost  thou  bid  me  go  and  be  silent,  because 
now — the  day  cometh  ? 

The  world  is  deep, — and  deeper  than  ever  day 
thought  it  might.  Not  everything  is  allowed  to  have 
language  in  presence  of  the  day.  But  the  day  cometh  ! 
Now  therefore  let  us  part ! 

Oh,  sky  above  me.  Thou  bashful !  Thou  glowing  ! 
Oh,  thou  my  happiness  before  sunrise  !  The  day 
cometh  !  Now  therefore  let  us  part ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


Having  reached  the  firm  land  again,  Zarathustra  did 
not  straightway  go  unto  his  mountains  and  his  cave, 
but  walked  about  much  and  put  many  questions  and 
learned  this  and  that,  so  that  he  said  of  himself  by 
way  of  a  joke  :  "  Behold  a  river  which  with  many 
windings  floweth  back  unto  its  source."  For  he  wished 
to  learn  what  in  the  meantime  had  gone  on  with  man, 
whether  he  had  become  taller  or  smaller.  And  once 
he  saw  a  row  of  new  houses.  Then  he  wondered  and 
said  : 

"  What  do  these  houses  mean  ?  Verily,  no  great 
soul  put  them  there  to  be  its  likeness  ! 

Did  a  silly  child  take  them  out  of  the  toy-box  ? 
Would  that  another  child  would  put  them  back  into 
his  box  ! 

And  these  public  rooms  and  bed-rooms — are  men 
able  to  go  in  and  out  there  ?  They  appear  unto  me 
to  be  made  for  silken  dolls ;  or  for  sweet-teeth, 
which  even  allow  delicacies  to  be  stolen  from  them." 


And  Zarathustra  stopped  and  meditated.  At  last 
he  said  sadly  :  "All  hath  become  smaller  ! 

Everywhere  I  see  lower  doorways.  He  who  is  of 
my  kin,  can  still  pass  through  them,  but  he  must  stoop  ! 

Oh,  when  shall  I  return  unto  my  home  where  I 
shall  have  to  stoop  no  more — to  stoop  no  more  be- 
fore the  small !  "  And  Zarathustra  sighed  gazing  into 
the  distance. 

The  same  day  he  made  his  speech  on  the  virtue 
that  maketh  smaller. 

"  I  pass  through  these  folk  and  keep  mine  eyes  open. 
The  folk  do  not  forgive  me  for  not  being  envious  of 
their  virtues. 

They  bite  at  me  because  I  say  unto  them  :  '  For 
small  folk  small  virtues  are  requisite  ; '  and  because  it 
is  hard  for  me  to  understand  that  small  folk  are 
requisite  ! 

Still  I  am  like  the  cock  in  a  strange  farm,  yard, 
at  whom  even  the  hens  bite.  But  for  that  reason  I 
have  no  dislike  unto  these  hens. 

I  am  polite  unto  them  as  I  am  unto  all  small  an- 
noyances. To  be  bristly  towards  what  is  small,  seemeth 
unto  me  to  be  a  wisdom  for  hedgehogs. 

They  all  speak  of  me  whenever  they  sit  round 
the  fire  at  even.  They  speak  of  me,  but  no  one  think- 
eth — of  me  ! 


This  is  the  new  stillness  I  learned :  'their  noise 
around  me  spreadeth  a  mantle  over  my  thoughts. 

They  make  a  noise  among  themselves  :  '  What  doth 
that  gloomy  cloud  there  ?  Let  us  see  unto  it  that  it 
bring  not  a  pestilence  unto  us  ! ' 

And  of  late  a  woman  clasped  unto  herself  her 
child  that  was  coming  unto  me  :  '  Take  the  children 
away  ! '  cried  she  ;  '  such  eyes  scorch  children's  souls.' 

They  cough  when  I  speak  ;  they  are  of  opinion 
that  coughing  is  an  objection  unto  strong  winds. 
They  do  not  divine  anything  about  the  rushing  of  my 
happiness  ! 

'We  have  not  yet  time  for  Zarathustra' — they 
say  as  an  objection.  But  what  matter  about  a  time 
that  hath  '  no  time '  for  Zarathustra  ? 

And  if  they  praise  me,  above  all, — how  can  I  fall 
asleep  on  their  fame  ?  A  belt  of  spikes  is  their 
praising  unto  me  ;  it  scratcheth  me  even  when  I  take 
it  off. 

And  this  moreover  I  learned  among  them  :  the 
praising  one  behaveth  as  if  he  restored  things  ;  in 
truth,  however,  he  desireth  to  be  given  more  ! 

Ask  my  foot  whether  it  is  pleased  by  their  melody 
of  praising  and  alluring  !  Verily,  unto  such  a  time-beat 
and  ticking  it  liketh  neither  to  dance  nor  to  stand  still. 

Unto  small  virtue  they  would  fain  allure  me  and 
draw  me  by  praising.  To  share  the  ticking  of  their 
small  happiness,  they  would  fain  persuade  my  foot. 


I  walk  through  these  folk  and  keep  mine  eyes 
open.  They  have  become  smaller  and  are  becoming 
ever  smaller.  And  the  reason  of  that  is  their  doctrine 
of  happiness  and  virtue. 

For  they  are  modest  even  in  their  virtue  ;  for  they 
are  desirous  of  ease.  But  with  ease  only  modest 
virtue  is  compatible. 

True,  in  their  fashion  they  learn  how  to  stride  and 
to  stride  forward.  That  call  I  their  hobbling.  Thereby 
they  become  an  offence  unto  every  one  who  is  in  a  hurry. 

And  many  a  one  strideth  on  and  in  doing  so 
looketh  backward,  with  a  stiffened  neck.  I  rejoice  to 
run  against  the  stomachs  of  such. 

Foot  and  eyes  shall  not  lie,  nor  reproach  each 
other  for  lying.  But  there  is  much  lying  among  the 
small  folk. 

Some  of  them  will,  but  most  of  them  are  willed 
merely.  Some  of  them  are  genuine,  but  most  of  them 
are  bad  actors. 

There  are  unconscious  actors  among  them,  and 
involuntary  actors.  The  genuine  are  always  rare, 
especially  genuine  actors. 

Here  is  little  of  man  ;  therefore  women  try  to 
make  themselves  manly.  For  only  he  who  is  enough 
of  a  man  will  save  the  woman  in  woman. 

And  this  hypocrisy  I  found  to  be  worst  among 
them,  that  even  those  who  command  feign  the  virtues 
of  those  who  serve. 


'  I  serve,  thou  servest,  we  serve.'  Thus  the  hypo- 
crisy of  the  rulers  prayeth.  And,  alas,  if  the  highest 
lord  be  merely  the  highest  servant ! 

Alas  !  the  curiosity  of  mine  eye  strayed  even  unto 
their  hypocrisies,  and  well  I  divined  all  their  fly-happi- 
ness and  their  humming  round  window-panes  in  the 

So  much  kindness,  so  much  weakness  see  I.  So 
much  justice  and  sympathy,  so  much  weakness. 

Round,  honest  and  kind  are  they  towards  each 
other,  as  grains  of  sand  are  round,  honest  and  kind 
unto  grains  of  sand. 

Modestly  to  embrace  a  small  happiness — they  call 
'  submission  ! '  And  therewith  they  modestly  look  side- 
ways after  a  new  small  happiness. 

At  bottom  they  desire  plainly  one  thing  most  of 
all :  to  be  hurt  by  nobody.  Thus  they  oblige  all  and 
do  well  unto  them. 

But  this  is  cowardice ;  although  it  be  called 
'  virtue.' 

And  if  once  they  speak  harshly,  these  small  folk, 
— I  hear  therein  merely  their  hoarseness.  For  every 
draught  of  air  maketh  them  hoarse. 

Prudent  are  they  ;  their  virtues  have  prudent  fin- 
gers. But  they  are  lacking  in  clenched  fists  ;  their 
fingers  know  not  how  to  hide  themselves  behind 

For  them  virtue  is  what  maketh  modest  and  tame. 


Thereby  they  have  made  the  wolf  a  dog  and  man 
himself  man's  best  domestic  animal. 

'  We  put  our  chair  in  the  midst ' — thus  saith  their 
simpering  unto  me — '  exactly  as  far  from  dying  gladia- 
tors as  from  happy  swine.' 

This  is  mediocrity  ;  although  it  be  called  moderation. 


I  walk  through  these  folk  and  let  fall  many  a 
word.  But  they  know  neither  how  to  take  nor  how 
to  keep. 

They  wonder  that  I  have  not  come  to  revile  lusts 
and  vices.  Nor  indeed  have  I  come  to  bid  them  be- 
ware of  pick-pockets. 

They  wonder  that  I  am  not  ready  to  sharpen  and 
point  their  prudence  ;  as  if  among  them  there  were 
not  wiselings  enough,  whose  voices  grate  mine  ear 
like  slate-pencils. 

And  when  I  cry :  '  Curse  all  cowardly  devils 
within  yourselves  who  would  fain  whine  and  fold  their 
hands  and  adore ' — they  cry  :  '  Zarathustra  is  ungodly.' 

And  so  chiefly  their  teachers  of  submission  cry. 
But  into  their  ears  I  rejoice  to  cry :  '  Yea !  I  am 
Zarathustra,  the  ungodly  ! ' 

These  teachers  of  submission  !  Like  lice  they  creep 
wherever  things  are  small  and  sick  and  scabbed.  It 
is  only  my  loathing  that  hindereth  me  from  cracking 


Up  !  This  is  my  sermon  unto  their  ears :  '  I  am 
Zarathustra,  the  ungodly,  who  ask :  "  Who  is  more 
ungodly  than  I  am  that  I  may  enjoy  his  teach- 

I  am  Zarathustra,  the  ungodly.  Where  find  I  my 
like  ?  And  all  those  are  my  like  who  give  themselves 
a  will  of  their  own  and  renounce  all  submission. 

I  am  Zarathustra,  the  ungodly.  I  have  ever  boiled 
every  chance  in  mine  own  pot.  And  not  until  it  hath 
been  boiled  properly,  do  I  give  it  welcome  as  my 

And,  verily,  many  a  chance  came  unto  me  im- 
periously. But  my  will  spake  unto  it  still  more  so. 
Then  the  chance  at  once  fell  beseechingly  upon  its 
knees — 

Beseeching  to  be  given  a  home  and  heart  with 
me,  and  persuading  me  flatteringly  :  '  Behold,  O  Zara- 
thustra, how  ever  friend  cometh  unto  friend  ! ' 

But  what  say  I  where  no  one  hath  mine  ears  ! 
And  thus  I  will  proclaim  it  into  all  winds  : 

'  Ye  become  ever  smaller,  ye  small  folk  !  Ye  com- 
fortable ones,  ye  crumble  away  !  One  day  ye  will 
perish — 

From  your  many  small  virtues,  from  your  many 
small  omissions,  from  your  much  small  submission  ! 

Too  much  sparing,  too  much  yielding — thus  it  is 
your  soil !  But  for  the  purpose  of  growing  high  a 
tree  will  twist  hard  roots  round  hard  rocks  ! 


Even  what  ye  omit  weaveth  at  the  weft  of  all 
manly  future  ;  even  your  nothing  is  a  spider's  web  and 
a  spider  living  upon  the  blood  of  the  future. 

And  when  ye  take  anything,  it  is  as  if  ye  stole 
it,  ye  small  virtuous.  But  even  among  rogues  honour 
ordereth  :  '  One  shall  steal  only  when  one  cannot  rob.' 

'It  is  given' — that  is  one  of  those  doctrines  of 
submission.  But  I  tell  you,  ye  comfortable  ones  :  '  It 
is  taken ' — and  ever  more  will  be  taken  from  you  ! 

Oh,  that  ye  would  renounce  that  half-willing  and 
resolve  upon  idleness  as  one  resolveth  upon  action  ! 

Oh,  that  ye  would  understand  my  word :  '  Be  sure 
to  do  whatever  ye  like, — but  first  of  all  be  such  as 
can  will ! 

Be  sure  to  love  your  neighbour  as  yourselves, — 
but  first  of  all  be  such  as  love  themselves — 

As  love  themselves  with  great  love,  with  great  con- 
tempt ! '  Thus  speaketh  Zarathustra,  the  ungodly. 

But  what  say  I  where  no  one  hath  mine  ears  ! 
Here  it  is  still  an  hour  too  early  for  me. 

Mine  own  fore-runner  I  am  among  these  folk,  mine 
own  cock-crow  through  dark  lanes. 

But  their  hour  will  come  !  And  mine  will  come 
also  !  Every  hour  they  become  smaller,  poorer,  less 
fertile.  Poor  pot-herbs  !  Poor  soil ! 

And  soon  shall  they  stand  there  like  dry  grass  and 
prairie,  and,  verily,  wearied  of  themselves — and  long- 
ing for  fire  more  than  for  water  ! 


Oh,  blessed  hour  of  lightning  !  Oh,  secret  of  the 
forenoon  !  Running  fires  shall  I  one  day  make  out 
of  them  and  announcers  with  fiery  tongues. 

Announce  shall  they  one  day  with  fiery  tongues: 
'  It  cometh,  it  is  nigh,  the  great  noon  ! ' 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  The  winter,  an  evil  guest,  sitteth  in  my  home  with 
me.  Blue  are  my  hands  from  his  friendship's  hand- 

I  honour  him,  this  evil  guest,  but  would  gladly  let 
him  alone.  Gladly  I  run  away  from  him.  And,  if  one 
runneth  well  one  escapeth  from  him  ! 

With  warm  feet  and  warm  thoughts  I  run  thither 
where  the  wind  is  still,  unto  the  sunny  corner  of  my 
mount  of  olives. 

There  I  laugh  at  my  stern  guest  and  yet  am  fond 
of  him,  because  at  home  he  catcheth  the  flies  for  me 
and  stilleth  many  little  noises. 

For  he  doth  not  allow  a  midge  to  sing,  or  still  less 
two  midges  ;  even  the  lane  he  maketh  lonely  so  that 
the  moonshine  at  night  is  afraid  there. 

A  hard  guest  is  he, — but  I  honour  him,  and  I  do 
not,  like  the  tenderlings,  pray  unto  the  fire-idol  with 
its  fat  womb. 

Rather  chatter  a  little  with  the  teeth  than   adore 


idols  !  Thus  my  kin  willeth.  And  especially  I  hate 
all  ardent,  steaming,  damp  fire-idols. 

Whom  I  love,  I  love  better  in  winter  than  in 
summer.  Better  I  now  mock  at  mine  enemies,  and 
more  valiantly,  now  that  the  winter  sitteth  in  my  home. 

Valiantly  indeed,  even  when  I  creep  into  bed. 
Even  then  my  hidden  happiness  laugheth  and  wanton- 
eth  ;  then  laugheth  my  dream  with  its  lies. 

I,  a — creeper  !  Never  in  my  life  have  I  crept  be- 
fore mighty  ones.  And  if  I  ever  lied,  I  lied  from  love. 
Therefore  am  I  glad  even  in  my  wintry  bed. 

A  poor  bed  warmeth  me  better  than  a  rich  bed  ; 
for  I  am  jealous  of  my  poverty.  And  in  winter  it  is 
the  most  faithful  unto  me. 

"With  a  wickedness  I  begin  every  day  :  I  mock  at 
the  winter  by  a  cold  bath.  Therefore  grumbleth  my 
stern  house-friend. 

Besides  I  like  to  tickle  him  with  a  little  wax-candle 
so  that,  at  last,  he  may  let  the  sky  come  out  of  ashen 
gray  dawn. 

For  particularly  wicked  am  I  in  the  morning.  At 
an  early  hour,  when  the  pail  clattereth  at  the  well, 
and  the  horses  with  heat  whinny  through  gray  lanes — 

Impatiently  I  wait,  that,  at  last,  the  clear  sky  may 
open  unto  me,  the  wintry  sky  with  its  beard  of  snow, 
the  old  and  white-headed  man— 

The  wintry  sky,  the  silent,  which  often  even  keep- 
eth  back  its  sun  ! 


Have  I  learnt  from  it  the  long  bright  silence  ?  Or 
hath  it  learnt  it  from  me  ?  Or  hath  either  of  us  in- 
vented it  himself? 

The  origin  of  all  good  things  is  thousandfold. 
From  lust  all  good  wanton  things  spring  into  existence. 
How  could  they  do  so  in  all  cases — once  only  ! 

A  good  wanton  thing  is  the  long  silence.  Like  the 
wintry  sky,  to  look  out  of  a  bright  face  with  round 
eyes, — 

Like  it  to  keep  back  one's  sun  and  one's  inflex- 
ible sun- will — verily,  this  art  and  this  winter- wanton- 
ness learned  I  well ! 

My  dearest  wickedness  and  art  is  it,  that  my  silence 
learned  not  to  betray  itself  by  being  silent. 

Rattling  with  words  and  dice  I  outwit  those  who 
wait  solemnly.  My  will  and  end  shall  escape  all  these 
severe  watchers. 

That  no  one  might  look  down  into  my  bottom 
and  last  will,  I  have  invented  for  myself  the  long 
bright  silence. 

Many  a  prudent  one  I  found.  He  veiled  his  face 
and  made  muddy  his  water,  that  no  one  might  look 
through  it  and  down  into  it. 

But  just  unto  him  the  cleverer  mistrustful  and  nut- 
crackers came.  They  fished  just  out  of  his  water  his 
best  hidden  fish  ! 

But  the  bright,  the  brave,  the  transparent — for  me 
they  are  the  wisest  silent  ones  ;  they,  whose  bottom 


is    so    deep  that    even    the    clearest  water    doth    not 
betray  it. 

Thou  silent  wintry  sky  with  thy  beard  of  snow  ! 
Thou  white  head  above  me  with  thy  round  eyes  !  Oh, 
thou  heavenly  likeness  of  my  soul  and  its  wantonness  ! 

And  must  I  not  hide  myself  like  one  who  hath 
swallowed  gold,  in  order  that  my  soul  may  not  be 
cut  open  ? 

Must  I  not  walk  on  stilts  in  order  that  my  long 
legs  may  escape  the  notice  of  all  those  envious  and 
malicious  folk  around  me  ? 

Those  souls  smoky,  fireside-warmed,  used-up,  cover- 
ed with  green,  sulky — how  could  their  envy  endure 
my  happiness  ! 

But  as  things  are,  I  show  them  only  the  ice  and 
the  winter  on  my  summits — and  not  that  my  mount 
tieth  around  itself  all  the  girdles  of  the  sun  ! 

They  hear  the  whistle  of  my  wintry  storms  only— 
and  not  that  I  also  sail  over  warm  seas,  like  longing, 
heavy,  hot  south  winds. 

They  have  pity  on  my  accidents  and  chances. 
But  my  word  is  :  '  Let  chance  come  unto  me  !  Innocent 
it  is,  as  a  little  child  ! ' 

How  could  they  endure  my  happiness  if  I  did  not 
put  round  it  accidents  and 'winter  sorrows  and  caps 
of  polar  bear-skin  and  covers  of  snowy  skies  ! 

If  I  had  not  pity  for  their  pity,  for  the  pity  of 
these  envious  and  malicious  folk  ! 



And  if  I  did  not.  sigh  in  their  presence  myself 
and  chatter  with  cold  and  allow  myself  to  be  patiently 
wrapped  in  their  pity  ! 

This  is  the  wise  wantonness  and  good-will  of  my 
soul,  that  it  doth  not  hide  its  winter  and  its  snow 
storms ;  neither  doth  it  hide  its  chilblains. 

The  loneliness  of  the  one  is  the  flight  of  the  sick 
one  ;  the  loneliness  of  the  other  is  the  flight  from  the 

Let  them  hear  me  chatter  and  sigh  with  the  winter 
cold,  all  those  poor,  envious  rogues  round  me  !  With 
such  sighing  and  chattering  I  fly  from  their  well 
warmed  rooms. 

Let  them  pity  me  and  sigh  with  me  because  of 
my  chilblains.  'At  the  ice  of  perception  at  last  he 
will  freeze  unto  death  ! '  Thus  they  complain. 

In  the  meantime  with  warm  feet  I  walk  crosswise 
and  crookedwise  over  my  mount  of  olives.  In  the 
sunny  corner  of  my  mount  of  olives  I  sing  and  mock 
at  all  pity." 

Thus  sang  Zarathustra. 


Thus  slowly  passing  through  much  folk  and  towns 
of  many  kinds  by  round-about-ways,  Zarathustra  re- 
turned unto  his  mountains  and  his  cave.  And,  behold, 
in  doing  so  he  came  unawares  unto  the  town-gate  of 
the  great  city.  But  there  a  raging  fool  jumped  at 
him  with  his  hands  spread  out  and  stood  in  his  way. 
And  this  was  the  same  fool  whom  the  folk  called 
"  the  ape  of  Zarathustra."  For  he  had  learnt  from  him 
some  things  regarding  the  coining  and  melody  of 
speech,  and  borrowed  probably  not  unwillingly  from 
the  treasure  of  his  wisdom.  The  fool  thus  spake  unto 
Zarathustra : 

"  O  Zarathustra,  here  is  the  great  city  !  Here  thou 
hast  nothing  to  seek  and  everything  to  lose. 

Why  shouldst  thou  wish  to  wade  through  this  mud  ? 
Have  pity  on  thy  foot !  Rather  spit  at  the  city  gate, 
and — turn  round  ! 

Here  is  the  hell  of  hermit's  thoughts.  Here  great 
thoughts  are  boiled  alive  and  cooked  into  morsels. 



Here  all  great  feelings  moulder.  Here  only  such 
little  feelings  are  allowed  to  rattle  as  rattle  from  lean- 

Dost  thou  not  smell  already  the  shambles  and 
cook-shops  of  the  spirit  ?  Doth  not  this  city  steam 
with  the  odour  of  butchered  spirit  ? 

Dost  thou  not  see  the  souls  hang  slack  like  filthy 
rags  ?  And  they  make  even  newspapers  out  of  these 
rags  ! 

Dost  thou  not  hear  how  in  this  place  the  spirit 
hath  become  a  play  upon  words  ?  Loathsome  word- 
dishwater  is  vomited  by  it.  And  they  make  even 
newspapers  out  of  that  dishwater  of  words. 

They  hunt  each  other  they  know  not  whither. 
They  make  each  other  hot  and  know  not  why.  They 
jungle  with  their  tin  foil  ;  they  tinkle  with  their  gold. 

They  feel  cold  and  seek  warmth  for  themselves  in 
distilled  waters  ;  they  are  hot  and  seek  coolness  in 
frozen  spirits  ;  they  are  all  sick  and  full  of  sores  from 
public  opinion. 

All  lusts  and  vices  are  here  at  home.  But  here 
also  are  virtuous  ones,  here  is  much  competent  virtue 
in  service — 

Much  competent  virtue  with  fingers  to  write  and 
hard  flesh  to  sit  and  wait,  blessed  with  small  stars  on 
the  breast  and  stuffed  small-haunched  daughters. 

Here  also  are  much  piety  and  much  faithful  spittle- 
licking  and  spittle-baking  before  the  God  of  hosts. 


For  '  from  above '  the  star  droppeth,  and  the  graci- 
ous spittle.  Upwards  every  starless  breast  longeth. 

The  moon  hath  her  court,  and  the  court  hath  its 
moon-calves.  Unto  whatever  cometh  from  the  court 
pray  the  beggar-folk  and  all  competent  beggar-virtue. 

'I  serve,  thou  servest,  we  serve' — thus  all  compe- 
tent virtue  prayeth  upwards  unto  the  prince,  in  order 
that  the  star  which  hath  been  deserved  may  at  last 
be  fixed  on  the  narrow  breast ! 

But  the  moon  revolveth  round  all  that  is  earthly. 
Thus  the  prince  also  turneth  round  what  is  earthliest 
of  all :  that  is  the  gold  of  shopkeepers. 

The  God  of  hosts  is  not  a  God  of  gold  bars.  The 
prince  thinketh,  but  the  shopkeeper  directeth  ! 

By  all  that  is  light  and  strong  and  good  within 
thee,  O  Zarathustra  !  Spit  on  this  town  of  shopkeepers 
and  turn  round  ! 

Here  the  blood  floweth  rotten  and  lukewarm  and 
with  a  scum  through  all  veins.  Spit  at  the  great  city, 
which  is  the  great  rubbish-heap  where  all  the  scum 
simmereth  together  ! 

Spit  at  this  town  of  the  pressed-in  souls  and  the 
narrow  breasts,  the  pointed  eyes  and  the  sticky  fingers — 

At  this  town  of  obtruders,  impudent  ones,  writers 
and  bawlers,  of  over-heated  ambitious  ones — 

Where  all  that  is  tainted,  feigned,  lustful,  dust- 
ful,  over-mellow,  ulcer-yellow,  conspiring,  ulcerateth 
together — 


Spit  at  the  great  city  and  turn  round  ! " 

Here  Zarathustra  interrupted  the  raging  fool  and 
shut  his  mouth. 

"  Stop  now ! "  Zarathustra  cried,  "  I  have  long  loathed 
thy  speech  and  kin  ! 

Why  hast  thou  dwelt  so  long  nigh  the  swamp 
that  thou  wert  obliged  to  become  a  frog  and  a  toad  ? 

Doth  not  a  rotten  scumlike  swamp-blood  flow 
through  thine  own  veins,  that  thou  hast  learnt  to  croak 
and  slander  thus. 

Why  wentst  thou  not  into  the  forest  ?  Or  why 
didst  thou  not  plough  the  soil  ?  Is  not  the  sea  full 
of  green  islands  ? 

I  despise  thy  despising.  And  if  thou  warnedst  me, 
— why  didst  thou  not  warn  thyself? 

From  love  alone  my  despising  and  my  warning 
bird  shall  fly  up  ;  but  not  out  of  the  swamp  ! 

They  call  thee  mine  ape,  thou  raging  fool,  but  I 
call  thee  my  grunting  pig.  Through  grunting  thou 
even  spoilest  my  praise  of  folly. 

What  then  was  it  what  made  thee  grunt  first  ? 
Because  nobody  flattered  thee  sufficiently,  therefore 
thou  sattest  down  at  this  filth  in  order  to  have  reason 
to  grunt  much, — 

In  order  to  have  reason  for  much  revenge  !  For 
revenge,  thou  idle  fool,  is  all  thy  raging.  Truly  I  have 
found  thee  out ! 


But  thy  foolish  word  doth  harm  unto  me  even 
where  thou  art  right !  And  if  Zarathustra's  word 
were  even  right  a  hundred  times,  with  my  word  thou 
wouldst  always  do  wrong  !  " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  And  long  he  gazed  at  the 
great  city,  sighed  and  was  long  silent.  At  last  he 
spake  thus  : 

"I  loathe  this  great  city  and  not  merely  this  fool. 
In  neither  is  there  anything  to  be  improved,  anything 
to  be  made  worse. 

Alas,  for  this  great  city  !  Would  I  could  see  now 
the  pillar  of  fire  by  which  it  will  be  burnt ! 

For  such  pillars  of  fire  will  have  to  precede  the 
great  noon.  But  this  hath  its  time  and  its  own  fate. 

This  wisdom  I  give  thee,  thou  fool,  at  parting : 
'  Where  one  can  love  no  longer,  one  shall — pass  !  ' 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  and  passed  the  fool  and 
the  great  city. 


"Alas !  doth  everything  lie  withered  and  gray  that 
of  late  stood  green  and  many-coloured  on  this  mead- 
ow ?  And  how  much  honey  of  hope  carried  I  hence 
into  my  bee-hives  ! 

These  young  hearts  have  all  become  old — and  not 
even  old  !  only  weary,  vulgar,  indolent.  They  call  it : 
'  We  have  become  pious  once  more.' 

Of  late  I  saw  them  run  out  on  brave  feet  at  early 
morning.  But  their  feet  of  perception  have  wearied, 
and  now  they  even  slander  the  bravery  of  their  morn- 
ing ! 

Verily,  many  a  one  of  them  once  lifted  his  feet 
like  a  dancer,  the  laughter  in  my  wisdom  making 
signs  unto  him.  Then  he  changed  his  mind.  Just  now 
I  have  seen  him  creep  crooked  unto — the  cross. 

Round  light  and  freedom  they  once  fluttered,  like 
midges  and  young  poets.  A  little  older,  a  little  colder — 
and  quickly  they  have  become  obscurantists  and  mum- 
biers  and  stay-at-homes. 


Did  their  heart  lose  its  courage,  because  loneliness 
devoured  me  like  a  whale?  Did  their  ear  hearken 
longingly  and  long  in  vain  for  me  and  my  trumpet- 
peals  and  herald-calls  ? 

Alas  !  There  are  always  but  few  whose  heart  hath 
a  long  courage  and  long  overflowing  spirits  ;  and  unto 
such  the  spirit  remaineth  patient  also.  But  the  rest 
are  cowards  ! 

The  rest,  that  meaneth  always  the  great  majority, 
the  every-day  folk,  the  superabundant,  the  much  too 
many — all  these  are  cowards  ! 

Unto  him  who  is  of  my  kin,  experiences  of  my  kin 
will  cross  the  way.  Thus  his  first  companions  must  be 
corpses  and  buffoons. 

But  his  second  companions — they  will  call  them- 
selves his  faithful  ones — a  living  hive,  much  love,  much 
folly,  much  beardless  veneration. 

Whoever  is  of  my  kin  among  men,  shall  not  tie 
his  heart  unto  these  faithful  ones  !  Whoever  knoweth 
the  fleeting  cowardly  kind  of  man,  shall  not  believe 
in  these  springs  and  many-coloured  meadows  ! 

If  they  could  do  otherwise,  they  would  will  other- 
wise also.  Half-and-half  ones  spoil  every  whole.  That 
leaves  wither, — why  lament  about  that ! 

Let  them  go  and  fall,  O  Zarathustra,  and  lament 
not !  Rather  blow  among  them  with  rustling  winds  ! 

Blow  among  these  leaves,  O  Zarathustra,  that  all 
that  is  withered  may  still  faster  run  away  from  thee  ! 


'  We  have  become  pious  once  more ' — these  apo- 
states confess  ;  and  some  of  them  are  too  cowardly 
to  confess  that. 

Into  their  eye  I  gaze  ;  into  their  face  and  into  the 
blushing  of  their  cheeks  I  tell  it :  '  You  are  such  as 
pray  again  ! ' 

But  it  is  a  shame  to  pray  !  Not  for  all,  but  for 
thee  and  me  and  him  who  hath  his  conscience  in  his 
head.  For  thee  it  is  a  shame  to  pray  ! 

Thou  knowest  it  well :  thy  cowardly  devil  within 
thee  who  would  fain  fold  his  hands  and  lay  them  in 
his  lap  and  have  things  made  easier — this  cowardly 
devil  persuadeth  thee  '  there  is  a  God  ! ' 

Thereby  thou  belongest  unto  that  kin  that  fear 
the  light,  that  cannot  find  rest  in  the  light.  Now 
daily  thou  must  put  thy  head  deeper  into  night  and 
damp  ! 

And,  verily,  thou  chosest  the  hour  well ;  for  just 
now  the  moths  have  swarmed  out  again.  The  hour 
hath  come  for  all  folk  that  fear  the  light,  the  hour  of 
even  and  rest,  when  they  do  not — '  rest.' 

I  hear  it  and  smell  it :  their  hour  hath  come  for 
hunting  and  procession  ;  true,  not  for  the  wild  hunts- 
man, but  for  a  hunting  tame,  lame,  snuffling,  a  hunt- 
ing of  eavesdroppers  and  secret  praying  ones— 


For  a  hunting  of  soul-breathing  sneaks.  All  mouse- 
traps for  hearts  have  been  set  once  more  !  And 
wherever  I  lift  a  curtain,  a  little  moth  rusheth  forth 
from  it. 

Did  it  squat  there  together  with  another  little  moth  ? 
For  everywhere  I  smell  little  hidden  communions ; 
and  wherever  there  are  small  rooms,  there  are  new 
bigots  and  the  odour  of  bigots. 

They  sit  for  long  evenings  together  saying  :  '  Let 
us  become  again  like  the  little  children  and  say  "  dear 
God  ! " — with  their  mouth  and  stomach  spoiled  by  the 
pious  comfit-makers. 

Or  for  long  evenings  they  gaze  at  an  artful,  lurk- 
ing cross-spider  that  preacheth  prudence  unto  the 
spiders  themselves  and  teacheth  thus :  '  Below  crosses 
there  is  good  spinning  ! ' 

Or  they  sit  all  day  with  fishing  rods  at  the  swamps, 
and  thereby  believe  themselves  profound.  But  him 
who  fisheth  where  there  are  no  fish  I  call  not  even 
superficial ! 

Or  they  learn  to  play  the  harp  piously  and  gaily 
from  a  hymn-writer,  who  would  fain  harp  himself  into 
the  heart  of  young  little  women.  For  he  hath  wearied 
of  old  little  women  and  their  praises. 

Or  they  learn  how  to  shudder  with  a  learned 
half-madman  who  waiteth  in  dark  rooms  for  the  spi- 
rits to  come  unto  him — and  the  spirit  runneth  wholly 
away  ! 


And  they  listen  unto  an  old  juggler-piper  and 
snarler  who  hath  wandered  about  and  learnt  from 
dreary  winds  the  affliction  of  tones.  Now  he  whistl- 
eth  after  the  wind  and  preacheth  affliction  in  dreary 

And  some  of  them  have  even  become  night  watch- 
men. They  know  now  how  to  blow  horns  and  to 
walk  about  in  the  night  and  awaken  old  things  which 
have  long  ago  fallen  asleep. 

Five  words  of  old  things  I  heard  last  night  at  the 
garden  wall.  They  came  from  such  old,  dreary,  dry 
night  watchmen. 

'For  a  father  he  taketh  not  care  enough  of  his 
children.  Human  fathers  do  it  better  ! ' 

'  He  is  too  old  !  He  no  longer  taketh  care  of  his 
children  at  all' — thus  answered  the  other  night  watch- 

'  Hath  he  got  children  ?  No  one  can  prove  he 
hath,  if  he  doth  not  prove  it  himself!  I  have 
wished  for  a  long  time  he  would  prove  it  for  once 

'  Prove  ?  As  though  he  had  ever  proved  anything ! 
Proof  is  hard  for  him.  He  layeth  much  stress  upon 
folk  believing  him.' 

'Ay  !  Ay  !  Belief  maketh  him  blessed,  belief  in 
him.  Thus  is  the  way  of  old  folk  !  Thus  it  will  be 
with  us  too  ! ' 

Thus   they   spake   unto    each   other,    the   two   old 


night  watchmen  and  shunners  of  the  light,  and  after- 
wards drearily  blew  their  horns.  Thus  it  came  to  pass 
yesternight  at  the  garden  wall. 

But  my  heart  writhed  with  laughter  and  was  like 
to  break  and  knew  not  whither  to  go,  and  sank  into 
the  midriff. 

Verily,  it  will  one  day  be  my  death  that  I  choke 
with  laughter,  when  seeing  asses  drunken,  and  hearing 
night  watchmen  thus  doubt  God. 

Hath  the  time  not  long  since  passed  even  for  all 
such  doubts  ?  Who  may  at  this  time  of  day  awaken 
such  old  things  which  have  fallen  asleep  and  shunned 
the  light  ? 

For  the  old  Gods  came  unto  an  end  long  ago. 
And,  verily,  it  was  a  good  and  joyful  end  of  Gods  ! 

They  did  not  die  lingering  in  the  twilight, — al- 
though that  lie  is  told  !  On  the  contrary,  they  once 
upon  a  time — laughed  themselves  unto  death  ! 

That  came  to  pass  when  by  a  God  himself  the 
most  ungodly  word  was  uttered,  the  word :  '  There 
is  one  God  !  Thou  shalt  have  no  other  Gods  before 
me  !' 

An  old  grim  beard  of  a  God,  a  jealous  one,  forgot 
himself  thus. 

And  then  all  Gods  laughed  and  shook  on  their 
chairs  and  cried  :  '  Is  godliness  not  just  that  there  are 
Gods,  but  no  God  ? ' 

Whoever  hath  ears  let  him  hear." 


Thus  spake  Zarathustra  in  the  town  which  he 
loved  and  which  is  called  the  "  Cow  of  Many  Colours." 
From  it  he  had  only  two  more  days  to  walk  in  order 
to  return  unto  his  cave  and  his  animals.  And  his  soul 
rejoiced  without  ceasing  over  the  nighness  of  his 
return  home. 


"  Oh,  loneliness  !  Thou  my  home,  loneliness  !  Too 
long  have  I  lived  wild  in  wild  places  afar  off,  to  be 
able  to  return  home  unto  thee  without  tears  ! 

Now  threaten  me  with  the  finger,  as  mothers  do ; 
now  smile  at  me,  as  mothers  do,  now  speak  :  'And 
who  was  it  that  once  upon  a  time  like  a  stormwind 
rushed  away  from  me  ? 

Who,  taking  leave,  called  :  "  Too  long  I  sat  with 
loneliness  ;  there  I  unlearned  silence  ! "  Peradventure 
thou  hast  now  learnt  that  ? 

O  Zarathustra !  I  know  all  and  that  thou  wert 
more  sorely  forsaken  among  the  many,  thou  one,  than 
thou  ever  wert  with  me  ! 

Forsakenness  is  one  thing,  loneliness  is  another — 
that  thou  hast  now  learnt !  And  that,  among  men, 
thou  wilt  always  be  wild  and  strange — 

Wild  and  strange  even  when  they  love  thee  ;  for 
above  all  they  wish  to  be  spared  ! 

But  here  thou  art  in  thine  own  home  and  house  ; 
here  thou  canst  speak  out  everything  and  pour  out 


all  reasons.  Nothing  here  is  ashamed  of  hidden,  ob- 
durate feelings. 

Here  all  things  come  fondling  unto  thy  speech  and 
flatter  thee  ;  for  they  will  ride  on  thy  back.  On  every 
likeness  thou  ridest  here  unto  every  truth. 

Upright  and  sincere  mayest  thou  here  speak  unto 
all  things.  And,  verily,  it  soundeth  like  praise  unto 
their  ears,  that  one  speaketh  frankly  with  all  things  ! 

Another  thing,  however,  is  forsakenness.  For  dost 
thou  remember,  O  Zarathustra,  when  thy  bird  shrieked 
above  thee,  when  thou  stoodest  in  the  forest  irresolute 
whither  to  go,  unknowing,  nigh  unto  a  corpse  ? 

When  thou  spakest :  "  Let  mine  animals  lead  me. 
More  dangerous  I  found  it  among  men  than  among 
animals  ?  "  That  was  forsakenness  ! 

And  dost  thou  remember,  O  Zarathustra,  when 
thou  sattest  on  thine  island;  among  empty  pails,  a  well  of 
wine,  giving  and  spending ;  among  thirsty  folk,  granting 
and  pouring  out — 

Until,  at  last,  thou  sattest  alone  thirsty  among 
drunken  folk  and  wailedst :  "  Is  taking  not  more  blissful 
than  giving  ?  And  stealing  still  more  blissful  than 
taking  ?  "  That  was  forsakenness  ! 

And  dost  thou  remember,  O  Zarathustra,  when 
thy  stillest  hour  came  and  drove  thee  away  from 
thyself,  when  it  spake  with  evil  whispering  :  "  Speak 
and  break  ! " 

When    it    made    thee   loathe   all  thy  waiting   and 


silence,  and  abashed  thine  humble  courage  !  That  was 
forsakenness  ! ' 

Oh,  loneliness  !  Thou  my  home,  loneliness  !  How 
blissfully  and  fondly  speaketh  thy  voice  unto  me  ! 

We  do  not  ask  each  other,  we  do  not  wail  with 
each  other,  we  openly  go  together  through  open  doors. 

For  all  is  open  and  bright  with  thee,  and  even 
the  hours  run  here  on  lighter  feet.  For  in  the  dark, 
time  is  a  heavier  burden  than  in  the  light. 

Here  the  words  of  being  and  shrines  of  words  of 
being  open  suddenly.  All  being  longeth  here  to  become 
language,  all  becoming  longeth  here  to  learn  to  speak 
from  me. 

But  down  there — all  speech  is  in  vain  !  There  to 
forget  and  to  pass  by  are  the  best  wisdom.  That 
have  I  learnt  now  ! 

He  who  would  conceive  all  with  men,  would  have 
to  touch  everything.  But  for  that  my  hands  are  too 

I  do  not  like  to  breathe  even  their  breath.  Alas, 
that  I  have  lived  so  long  amid  their  noise  and  bad 
breath  ! 

Oh,  blissful  stillness  round  me  !  Oh,  pure  odours 
round  me  !  Oh,  how  this  stillness  bringeth  pure  breath 
out  of  a  deep  breast !  Oh,  how  it  hearken eth,  this 
blissful  stillness  ! 

But  down  there— everything  speaketh,  everything 
is  overheard.  Let  folk  proclaim  their  wisdom  by 



ringing  bells, — the  shopkeepers  in  the  market  will 
outring  them  with  their  pennies  ! 

Everything  with  them  speaketh,  no  one  knoweth 
how  to  understand.  Everything  falleth  into  the  water, 
nothing  falleth  into  deep  wells  any  more. 

Everything  with  them  speaketh,  nothing  more 
succeedeth  and  cometh  unto  an  end.  Everything  doth 
cackle, — but  who  will  sit  still  on  the  nest  and  hatch 

Everything  with  them  speaketh,  everything  is  spoken 
into  pieces.  And  what  yesterday  was  too  hard  for 
time  itself  and  its  tooth,  to-day  hangeth  out  of  the 
mouths  of  the  folk  of  to-day — scraped  and  gnawed 
into  pieces. 

Everything  with  them  speaketh,  everything  is  be- 
trayed. And  what  once  was  called  secret  and  a 
secrecy  of  deep  souls,  to-day  belongeth  unto  the  trump- 
eters of  the  streets  and  other  butterflies. 

Oh,  human  kind,  how  strange  thou  art!  Thou  noise 
in  dark  lanes  !  Now  thou  again  liest  behind  me  !  My 
greatest  danger  lieth  behind  me  ! 

In  sparing  and  pity  lay  always  my  greatest  danger  ; 
and  all  human  kind  wisheth  to  be  spared  and  endured. 

With  truths  kept  back,  with  a  foolish  hand  and  a 
befooled  heart,  and  rich  with  the  small  lies  of  pity — 
thus  have  I  always  lived  among  men. 

Disguised  I  sat  among  them,  ready  to  mistake 
myself  in  order  to  endure  them,  and  willingly  trying 


to  persuade  myself:   'Thou  fool,  thou  dost  not  know 
men  !' 

One  unlearneth  men  when  living  among  men.  Too 
much  foreground  is  in  all  men — what  could  far-seeing, 
far-searching  eyes  do  there  ! 

And  when  they  mistook  me — fool  that  I  was, 
I  spared  them  on  that  account  more  than  I  spared 
myself!  For  I  was  accustomed  to  be  hard  upon  my- 
self, and  often  even  took  revenge  on  myself  for  that 

Stung  all  over  by  poisonous  flies,  and  hollowed 
like  a  stone  by  many  drops  of  wickedness,  I  sat  among 
them  and  tried  to  persuade  myself:  'Innocent  of  its 
smallness  is  everything  small ! ' 

Especially  those  who  call  themselves  'the  good' 
I  found  to  be  the  most  poisonous  flies.  They  sting  in 
all  innocence,  they  lie  in  all  innocence.  How  could 
they  be  just  unto  me  ! 

Whoever  liveth  among  the  good,  is  taught  to  lie 
by  pity.  Pity  maketh  the  air  damp  unto  all  free  souls. 
For  the  stupidity  of  the  good  is  unfathomable. 

To  hide  myself  and  my  riches — that  I  have  learnt 
down  there  ;  for  every  one  I  found  to  be  poor  in 
spirit.  That  was  the  lie  of  my  pity,  that  I  knew  about 
everyone, — 

That  I  saw  and  smelt  at  once  in  everyone  how 
much  of  spirit  was  enough  for  him,  and  how  much  of 
spirit  was  too  much  for  him  ! 



Their  stiff  wise  men — I  called  them  wise,  not  stiff. 
Thus  I  learned  to  swallow  words.  Their  grave-diggers — 
I  called  them  searchers  and  examiners.  Thus  I  learned 
to  exchange  words. 

The  grave-diggers  get  sicknesses  by  digging.  Under 
old  rubbish  there  rest  bad  odours.  One  must  not  stir 
up  the  swamp.  One  must  live  on  mountains. 

With  blessed  nostrils  I  •  breathe  again  mountain- 
freedom.  Saved,  at  last,  is  my  nose  from  the  odour 
of  all  human  kind  ! 

Tickled  by  sharp  breezes,  as  it  were  by  sparkling 
wines,  my  soul  sneezeth.  It  sneezeth  and  in  triumph 
crieth  :  '  God  bless  me  ! ' " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  In  a  dream,  in  a  last  dream  of  the  morning,  I  stood 
this  day  on  a  promontory, — beyond  the  world.  I  held 
a  balance  and  weighed  the  world. 

Alas,  that  the  dawn  came  too  soon  unto  me  !  It 
waked  me  by  its  glow,  the  jealous  one  !  Jealous  is  it 
always  of  the  glow  of  my  morning  dreams. 

Measurable  for  him  who  hath  time  ;  weighable  for 
a  good  weigher ;  reachable  by  the  flight  of  strong 
wings  ;  guessable  by  godlike  nut-crackers  ; — thus  my 
dream  found  the  world  to  be. 

My  dream,  a  bold  sailor,  half  ship,  half  whirlwind, 
silent  as  butterflies,  impatient  as  a  falcon  gentle — why 
had  it  this  day  patience  and  leisure  to  weigh  the 
world  ? 

Did  my  wisdom  silently  speak  unto  it,  my  laughing, 
wide-awake  wisdom  of  daylight  which  mocketh  at  all 
'  infinite  worlds  ? '  For  it  saith  :  '  Where  there  is  force, 
there  the  number  becometh  master  ;  for  it  hath  the 
greater  force.' 


How  securely  did  -  my  dream  look  on  this  finite 
world,  not  curious,  not  greedy  for  old  things,  not 
afraid,  not  praying. 

As  if  a  round  apple  was  offered  unto  my  hand, 
a  ripe,  golden  apple,  with  a  cool,  smooth,  velvet  skin — 
thus  the  world  offered  itself  unto  me. 

As  if  a  tree  made  a  sign  unto  me,  with  broad 
boughs  and  a  strong  will,  bent  for  the  weary  wanderer 
to  lean  against  and  use  as  a  foot  stool — thus  stood 
the  world  on  my  promontory. 

As  if  neat  hands  carried  towards  me  a  chest,  a 
chest  open  for  the  rapture  of  bashful  revering  eyes 
—thus  the  world  this  day  offered  itself  unto  me. 

Not  riddle  enough  to  frighten  away  human  love  ; 
not  solution  enough  to  put  to  sleep  human  wisdom  ; 
— a  humanly  good  thing  for  me,  this  day,  was  the 
world  of  which  such  bad  things  are  said  ! 

How  thankful  am  I  unto  my  morning  dream  be- 
cause I  thus  weighed  the  world  early  this  morning  ! 
As  a  humanly  good  thing  it  came  unto  me,  this  dream 
and  comforter  of  the  heart ! 

And  in  order  to  do  during  the  day  what  it  did, 
and  to  learn  from  it  its  best,  now  I  will  put  the  three 
evilest  things  on  the  balance  and  weigh  them  in  a 
humanly  good  spirit ! 

He  who  taught  to  bless,  taught  also  to  curse. 
Which  are  the  three  best-cursed  things  in  the  world  ? 
These  I  will  put  on  the  balance. 


Voluptuousness,  thirst  of  power,  selfishness — these 
three  have  hitherto  been  cursed  best  and  have  had  the 
worst  renown  and  been  calumniated  worst.  These  three 
I  will  weigh  in  a  humanly  good  spirit. 

Up !  Here  is  my  promontory,  and  there  is  the 
sea.  That  rolleth  nigh  unto  me,  with  shaggy  hair, 
flatteringly,  the  faithful  old  dog-monster  with  an  hundred 
heads  which  I  love. 

Up  !  Here  will  I  keep  the  balance  over  the  rolling 
sea !  And  a  witness  I  choose  also,  to  look  at  my 
weighing, — thee,  thou  hermit-tree,  which  I  love,  with 
thy  strong  odour  and  thy  broad  arching  boughs. 

On  what  bridge  doth  the  Now  go  unto  the  One- 
day  ?  By  what  compulsion  doth  what  is  high  compel 
itself  to  join  what  is  low  ?  And  what  biddeth  even 
the  highest — grow  upwards  ? 

Now  the  balance  standeth  equal  and  still.  Three 
heavy  questions  I  have  thrown  into  it ;  three  heavy 
answers  are  carried  by  the  other  scale. 

Voluptuousness — unto  all  despisers'  of  the  body 
who  wear  penance-shirts,  a  sting  and  stake,  and  cursed 
as  a  '  world '  by  all  back- worlds-men.  For  it  mocketh 
at,  and  maketh  fools  of,  all  teachers  of  confusion  and 

Voluptuousness — for    the  rabble   the   slow   fire   on 


which  they^  are  burnt ;  for  all  worm-eaten  wood,  for 
all  stinking  rags,  the  ready  oven  of  love-fire  and 

Voluptuousness — for  free  hearts  innocent  and  free, 
the  garden-joy  of  earth,  the  overflowing  thankfulness 
of  all  the  future  towards  the  present. 

Voluptuousness — a  sweet  poison  unto  the  withered 
only,  but  the  great  invigoration  of  the  heart  and  the 
reverently  spared  wine  of  wines  for  those  who  have 
the  will  of  a  lion. 

Voluptuousness — the  great  prototype  of  a  higher 
happiness  and  the  highest  hope.  For  unto  many 
things  matrimony  is  promised  and  more  than  matri- 

Unto  many  things  which  are  stranger  unto  each 
other  than  man  and  woman  are.  And  who  would 
perceive  completely  how  strange  man  and  woman  are 
unto  each  other  ! 

Voluptuousness — but  I  will  have  railings  round  my 
thoughts  and  even  round  my  words,  that  swine  and 
enthusiasts  may  not  break  into  my  gardens  ! 

Thirst  of  power — the  glowing  scourge  of  the  hardest 
in  hardness  of  heart ;  the  horrid  torture  reserved  for 
the  very  cruellest ;  the  gloomy  flame  of  living  pyre. 

Thirst  of  power — the  malicious  gadfly  which  is  being 
set  on  the  vainest  peoples ;  the  scorner  of  all  un- 
certain virtue  ;  that  which  rideth  on  every  horse  and 
on  every  pride. 


Thirst  of  power — the  earthquake  that  breaketh,  and 
by  breaking  openeth,  all  that  is  rotten  and  hollow  ; 
the  rolling,  grudging,  punishing  breaker  of  whited 
sepulchres ;  the  shining  interrogation  mark  beside  pre- 
mature answers. 

Thirst  of  power — before  the  glance  of  which  man 
creepeth  and  ducketh  and  slaveth  and  becometh 
lower  than  serpent  or  swine,  until  at  last  the  great 
contempt  crieth  out  of  him. 

Thirst  of  power — the  terrible  teacher  of  the  great 
contempt  which  preacheth :  'Away  with  thee ! '  in 
the  very  face  of  cities  and  empires,  until  a  cry 
cometh  out  of  themselves  :  'Away  with  me  ! ' 

Thirst  of  power — which  alluring  mounteth  self- 
contented  heights  up  unto  the  pure  and  lonely,  glow- 
ing like  a  love  that,  alluring,  painteth  purple  blisses  on 
earthly  heavens. 

Thirst  of  power — but  who  could  call  it  thirst,  if 
what  is  high  longeth  to  step  down  for  power !  Verily, 
there  is  nothing  sick  or  suppurative  in  such  a  longing 
and  stepping  down  ! 

That  the  lonely  height  may  not  for  ever  be  lonely 
and  self-contented  ;  that  the  mount  may  come  unto 
the  valley,  and  the  winds  of  the  height  unto  the  low 
lands ! 

Oh  !  who  could  find  the  right  Christian  name  and 
name  of  virtue  for  such  a  longing  !  '  Giving  virtue ' — 
thus  the  unutterable  was  once  called  by  Zarathustra. 


And  then  it  also  came  to  pass — and,  verily,  to 
pass  for  the  first  time,  that  his  word  praised  blessed 
selfishness,  whole,  healthy  selfishness  that  springeth 
from  a  mighty  soul — 

From  a  mighty  soul,  part  of  which  is  the  high 
body,  the  beautiful,  victorious,  recreative,  round  which 
every  thing  becometh  a  mirror — 

The  flexible,  persuading  body,  the  dancer  whose 
likeness  and  summary  is  the  self-joyful  soul.  The  self- 
joy  of  such  bodies  and  souls  calleth  itself  'virtue.' 

With  its  words  of  good  and  bad  such  a  self-joy 
protecteth  itself  as  with  sacred  groves.  With  the  names 
of  its  happiness  it  banisheth  from  itself  all  that  is 

Away  from  itself  it  banisheth  all  that  is  cowardly. 
It  saith  :  'Bad — that  meaneth  cowardly  !'  Contemptible 
appeareth  unto  it  the  ever  sorrowful,  sighing,  miserable 
one,  and  whoever  collecteth  even  the  smallest  advantage. 

It  despiseth  all  wisdom  happy  in  misery.  For, 
verily,  there  is  also  wisdom  that  flourisheth  in  dark- 
ness, a  wisdom  of  nightlike  shadows  which  ever  sigheth  : 
'  All  is  vain  ! ' 

The  shy  mistrusting  is  regarded  as  inferior,  and 
whoever  wanteth  oaths  instead  of  looks  and  hands  ; 
including  all  all-too-mistrustful  wisdom  ;  for  such  is 
the  way  of  cowardly  souls. 

As  lower  still  it  regardeth  him  who  is  quick  to 
oblige,  dog-like,  who  at  once  lieth  down  on  his  back, 


who  is  submissive  ;  and  there  is  also  wisdom  that  is 
submissive  and  dog-like  and  pious  and  quick  to 

Hateful  and  loathsome  unto  it  is  he  who  careth 
not  to  defend  himself,  who  swalloweth  down  poisonous 
spittle  and  evil  looks,  the  all-too-patient  one,  the  sufferer 
of  everything,  the  all-too-contented  one  ;  for  that  is 
the  way  of  slaves. 

Whether  one  be  servile  before  Gods  and  divine 
kicks  ;  whether  he  be  so  before  men  and  silly  human 
opinions — at  all  the  slave  tribe  it  spitteth,  that  blessed 
selfishness ! 

Bad — thus  it  calleth  all  that  is  broken  and  niggardly- 
servile,  unfree  blinking  eyes,  pressed-down  hearts,  and 
that  false  yielding  tribe  that  kisseth  with  broad 
cowardly  lips. 

And  spurious  wisdom — thus  selfishness  calleth  all 
the  quibbles  of  slaves  and  old  men  and  weary  ones  ;  and 
in  particular  the  whole  bad,  mad,  over-witty  priest- 
foolishness  ! 

The  spurious  wise  men,  however,  all  the  priests, 
the  weary  of  the  world,  and  those  whose  souls  are 
of  the  tribe  of  women  and  slaves, — oh  !  how  well  hath 
their  play  ever  abused  selfishness  ! 

And  this  very  thing,  to  ill-use  selfishness,  was  pro- 
claimed to  be  virtue  and  to  be  called  virtue  !  And 
'unselfish' — thus,  with  good  reason,  all  those  cowards 
weary  of  the  world  and  cross-spiders  wished  to  be  ! 


And  for  all  those -the  day  now  cometh,  the  change, 
the  sword  of  judgment,  the  great  noon.  Then  much 
shall  become  apparent ! 

And  he  who  proclaimeth  the  I  whole  and  holy,  and 
selfishness  blessed,  a  prophet  indeed,  saith  also  what 
he  knoweth  :  '  Behold,  it  cometh,  it  is  nigh,  the  great 
noon  f '  " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  My  gift  of  the  gab — is  of  the  folk.  Too  coarsely 
and  heartily  for  angora-rabbits  I  speak.  And  still 
stranger  my  word  soundeth  unto  all  ink-fish  and  pen- 

My  hand — is  a  fool's  hand.  Woe  unto  all  tables 
and  walls,  and  whatever  hath  space  left  for  fools' 
ornaments,  fools'  scribbling  ! 

My  foot — is  a  horse's  foot.  With  it  I  trample  and 
trot  over  logs  and  stones,  crosswise  and  straight  over 
the  fields,  and  I  am  the  devil's  with  lust  in  all  my 
fast  running. 

My  stomach — is  it  an  eagle's  stomach  ?  For  it 
liketh  best  to  eat  lamb's  flesh.  But  certainly  it  is  a 
bird's  stomach. 

Fed  on  innocent  and  few  things,  ready  and  impatient 
to  fly,  to  fly  away — that  is  now  my  way.  How  should 
not  something  of  birds'  ways  be  in  it ! 

And,  in  particular,  that  I  am  an  enemy  unto  the 
spirit  of  gravity,  that  is  a  bird's  way.  And,  verily,  a 


mortal  enemy,  an  arch-enemy,  a  born  fiend !  Oh ! 
whither  hath  mine  enmity  not  already  flown  and  strayed  ? 

Of  that  I  could  sing  a  song  and  will  sing  it, 
although  I  am  alone  in  an  empty  house  and  must 
sing  it  unto  mine  own  ears. 

True,  there  are  other  singers,  whose  throat  is 
softened  only,  whose  hand  becometh  talkative  only, 
whose  eye  expressive  only,  whose  heart  awake  only, 
when  the  hall  is  well  filled.  I  am  not  like  unto 

He  who  one  day  will  teach  men  to  fly,  hath  moved 
all  landmarks. 

All  landmarks  will  themselves  fly  into  the  air,  the 
earth  will  be  baptised  anew  by  that  man — as  'the 
light  one.' 

The  ostrich  bird  runneth  faster  than  the  swiftest 
horse,  but  even  it  putteth  its  head  heavily  into  the 
heavy  ground.  So  doth  man  who  cannot  yet  fly. 

Earth  and  life  are  called  heavy  by  him  ;  thus  the 
spirit  of  gravity  willeth  !  But  whoever  intendeth  to 
become  light  and  a  bird,  must  love  himself;  thus 
teach  /. 

True,  not  with  the  love  of  the  sick  and  suppurative. 
For  with  them  stinketh  even  love  unto  themselves  ! 

One  must  learn  how  to  love  one's  self — thus  I 
teach — with  a  whole  and  healthy  love,  that  one  may 


find  life  with  one's  self  endurable,  and  not  go  gadding 

Such  a  gadding  about  baptiseth  itself  '  love  unto 
one's  neighbour.'  With  this  word  folk  have  lied  best 
hitherto  and  dissembled  best,  and  in  particular  those 
whom  all  the  world  felt  to  be  heavy. 

And,  verily,  it  is  no  commandment  for  to-day  and 
to-morrow,  to  learn  how  to  love  one's  self.  It  is 
rather  the  finest,  cunningest,  last  and  most  patient  of 

For  unto  him  who  possesseth  it,  all  that  is  possessed 
is  well  hidden  ;  and  of  all  treasure  pits  one's  own  is 
digged  out  last.  Thus  the  spirit  of  gravity  causeth  it 
to  be. 

Almost  in  the  cradle  we  are  given  heavy  words 
and  values.  '  Good '  and  '  evil '  that  cradle-gift  is 
called.  For  its  sake  we  are  forgiven  for  living. 

And  for  that  end  one  calleth  the  little  children 
unto  one's  self,  to  forbid  them  in  good  time  to  love 
themselves.  Thus  the  spirit  of  gravity  causeth  it  to  be. 

And  we — we  carry  faithfully  what  we  are  given, 
on  hard  shoulders  over  rough  mountains  !  And  when 
perspiring,  we  are  told  :  '  Yea,  life  is  hard  to  bear  ! ' 

But  man  himself  only  is  hard  to  bear  !  The  reason 
is  that  he  carrieth  too  many  strange  things  on  his 
shoulders.  Like  the  camel  he  kneeleth  down  and 
alloweth  the  heavy  load  to  be  put  on  his  back- 
In  particular  the  strong  man  who  is  able  to  bear 


the  load,  who  is  possessed  by  reverence.  Too  many 
strange,  heavy  words  and  values  he  taketh  upon  his 
shoulders.  Now  life  appeareth  unto  him  to  be  a  desert. 

And,  verily  !  Even  many  things  that  are  one's  own, 
are  hard  to  bear  !  And  many  inward  things  in  man 
are  like  unto  the  oyster,  i.  e.,  loathsome  and  slippery 
and  difficult  to  catch — 

So  that  a  noble  shell  with  noble  ornaments  must 
plead  for  it.  But  even  this  art  requireth  to  be  learnt, 
to  have  a  shell  and  beautiful  semblance  and  cunning 
blindness  ! 

Again  concerning  many  things  in  man  there  is 
deceit,  in  that  many  a  shell  is  inferior  and  sad  and 
too  much  a  shell.  Much  hidden  kindness  and  power 
is  never  found  out ;  the  most  precious  dainties  find 
no  tasters  ! 

Women,  the  most  precious  of  them,  know  that :  a 
little  fatter,  a  little  leaner — oh,  how  much  fate  lieth 
in  so  little  ! 

Man  is  difficult  to  discover,  and  hardest  of  all 
unto  himself.  Often  the  spirit  lieth  over  the  soul.  Thus 
the  spirit  of  gravity  causeth  it  to  be. 

But  he  hath  discovered  himself  who  saith :  '  This  is 
my  good  and  evil.'  Thereby  he  hath  made  mute  the 
mole  and  dwarf  who  saith  :  '  Good  for  all,  evil  for  all.' 

Verily,  neither  like  I  such  as  call  everything  good 
and  this  world  even  the  best.  Such  I  call  the  all- 


All-contentedness  that  knoweth  how  to  taste  every- 
thing— that  is  not  the  best  taste  !  I  honour  the  ob- 
stinate, fastidious  tongues  and  stomachs  which  have 
learnt  to  say  :  '  I '  and  '  Yea '  and  '  Nay.' 

To  chew  and  digest  everything — that  is  the  proper 
way  of  swine.  To  say  always  '  Hee-haw ' — that  hath 
been  learnt  by  the  ass  alone  and  creatures  of  his 
kidney  ! 

Deep  yellow  and  hot  red — thus  my  taste  willeth. 
It  mixeth  blood  with  all  colours.  But  whoever 
painteth  his  house  white  betrayeth  unto  me  a  soul 
painted  white. 

Some  fall  in  love  with  mummies,  others  with 
ghosts ;  both  are  alike  enemies  unto  all  flesh  and 
blood.  Oh,  how  contrary  are  they  both  unto  my  taste ! 
For  I  love  blood. 

And  not  there  will  I  stay  and  dwell  where  every- 
body spitteth  and  bespattereth ;  that  is  my  taste. 
Rather  would  I  live  among  thieves  and  perjured  ones. 
No  one  carrieth  gold  in  his  mouth. 

But  still  more  repugnant  unto  me  are  all  lick- 
spittles ;  and  the  most  repugnant  beast  of  a  man  I 
have  found,  I  have  baptised  parasite.  It  would  not  love 
and  yet  would  live  by  love. 

I  call  everyone  unblessed  who  hath  only  one 
choice,  to  become  an  evil  beast  or  evil  subduer  of 
beasts.  With  such  I  would  not  build  tabernacles. 

Unblessed  also  call  I  those  who  must  always  wait. 



They  are  contrary  unto  my  taste — all  the  publicans  and 
shopkeepers  and  kings  and  other  keepers  of  lands 
and  shops. 

Verily,  I  have  also  learnt  to  wait,  and  from  the 
bottom, — but  only  to  wait  for  myself.  And  I  learned 
to  stand  and  to  walk  and  to  run  and  to  jump  and 
to  climb  and  to  dance  over  all  things. 

But  this  is  my  teaching :  whoever  wisheth  to  learn 
to  fly  one  day,  must  first  learn  to  stand  and  walk  and 
run  and  climb  and  dance.  One  doth  not  learn  flying 
by  flying  ! 

By  ladders  of  rope  I  learned  to  climb  up  unto 
many  a  window  ;  with  swift  legs  I  climbed  up  high 
masts.  To  sit  on  high  masts  of  perception  seemed  unto 
me  no  small  bliss, — 

To  flicker  on  high  masts  like  small  flames — al- 
though a  small  light,  yet  a  great  comfort  for  sailors 
driven  out  of  their  course  and  for  shipwrecked  folk  ! 

By  many  ways  and  modes  I  have  come  unto  my 
truth  ;  not  on  one  ladder  I  climbed  up  unto  the  height, 
where  mine  eye  roveth  into  my  distance. 

And  I  have  always  asked  other  folk  for  the  way 
unwillingly.  That  hath  ever  been  contrary  unto  my 
taste  !  Rather  have  I  asked  and  tried  the  ways  for 

A  trying  and  asking  hath  all  my  walking  been. 
And,  verily,  one  must  also  learn  how  to  answer  such 
questioning  !  But  that — is  my  taste — 


No  good,  no  bad,  but  my  taste,  for  which  I  have 
neither  shame  nor  concealment. 

'  This — is  my  way, — where  is  yours  ? '  I  answered 
unto  those  who  asked  me  'for  the  way.'  'For  the 
way — existeth  not ! ' ' 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 



Here  I  sit  and  wait  ;  round  me  old  broken  tables 
and  new  tables  half  written  upon.  When  cometh 
mine  hour  ? 

The  hour  of  my  stepping  down,  of  my  destruc- 
tion. For  once  more  will  I  go  unto  men. 

For  that  wait  I  now  ;  because  first  of  all  the  signs 
must  appear  unto  me  that  it  is  mine  hour, — namely 
the  laughing  lion  with  the  flock  of  doves. 

In  the  meantime  I  speak  unto  myself  as  one  who 
hath  time.  Nobody  telleth  me  new  things  so  that  I 
tell  mine  own  self  unto  myself. 

When  I  came  unto  men,  I  found  them  sitting  on 
an  old  conceit.  All  of  them  thought  they  had  known 
long  what  was  good  and  evil  unto  man. 

All  speech  about  virtue  appeared  unto  them  to  be 
an  old  weary  thing,  and  he  who  wished  to  sleep  well 
spake  of  '  good '  and  '  evil '  before  going  to  bed. 


This  sleeping  I  disturbed  when  teaching  that  no 
one  knoweth  yet  what  is  good  and  evil,  unless  he 
be  a  creator  ! 

But  a  creator  is  he  who  createth  man's  goal  and 
giveth  earth  its  significance  and  its  future.  It  is  he 
alone  who  createth  the  fact  that  things  are  good  and  evil. 

And  I  bid  them  overthrow  their  old  chairs,  and 
all  seats  on  which  that  old  conceit  had  sat.  I  bid  them 
laugh  at  their  great  masters  of  virtue  and  saints  and 
poets  and  world-redeemers. 

I  bid  them  laugh  at  their  gloomy  wise  men,  and 
whoever  had  before  sat  warning,  a  black  scare-crow 
on  the  tree  of  life. 

By  their  great  street  of  graves  I  sat  down,  yea, 
nigh  unto  carrion  and  vultures  ;  and  I  laughed  at  all 
their  past  and  its  mellow,  decaying  splendour. 

Verily,  like  preachers  of  penitence  and  fools  I 
proclaimed  wrath  and  slaughter  against  their  great 
and  small  things.  '  Oh,  that  their  best  things  are  so 
very  small !  Oh,  that  their  evilest  things  are  so  very 
small ! '  Thus  I  laughed. 

Thus  out  of  me  cried  and  laughed  my  wise  long- 
ing, which  is  born  on  mountains,  a  wild  wisdom, 
verily  !  my  great  longing  with  its  roaring  wings. 

And  often  it  tore  me  off  and  upward  and  away, 
and  that  in  the  midst  of  laughing.  Then  meseemed  I 
flew  shuddering,  an  arrow  through  a  rapture  drunk 
with  sunlight— 


Out  into  remote  futures,  not  yet  seen  by  any  dream ; 
into  hotter  souths  than  artists  ever  dreamt ;  thither 
where  Gods  dancing  are  ashamed  of  all  clothing  : 

(So  I  say  to  use  a  simile,  and  poet-like  halt  and 
stammer.  And,  verily,  I  am  ashamed  that  I  still  need 
to  be  a  poet !) 

Where  all  becoming  seemed  unto  me  to  be  a 
dance  of  Gods  and  a  wantoning  of  Gods,  and  the 
world  to  be  left  loose  and  wantonly  flying  back  unto 

As  an  eternal  fleeing  of  many  Gods  from  them- 
selves and  seeking  themselves  again  ;  as  the  blessed 
self-contradicting,  hearing  themselves  again,  and  be- 
longing unto  themselves  once  more  of  many  Gods  ; 

Where  all  time  seemed  unto  me  a  blissful  scorn 
for  moments ;  where  necessity  was  freedom  itself,  play- 
ing blessedly  with  the  sting  of  freedom  ; 

Where  I  found  again  mine  old  devil  and  arch- 
fiend, the  spirit  of  gravity,  and  all  created  by  it :  com- 
pulsion, institutions,  exigency  and  consequence  and 
purpose  and  will  and  good  and  evil : 

(For  must  there  not  be  things  over  which,  across 
which  there  can  be  dancing  ?  Must  there  not  exist 
—moles  and  heavy  dwarfs,  for  the  sake  of  the  light, 
the  lightest  ?) 



There  also  I  picked  up  from  the  way  the  word 
1  beyond-man,'  and  the  concept  that  man  is  a  some- 
thing which  must  be  surpassed, — 

That  man  is  a  bridge  and  not  a  goal — praising 
himself  as  blessed  because  of  his  noon  and  evening, 
as  a  way  unto  new  morning  reds — 

The  Zarathustra-word  of  the  great  noon,  and 
whatever  else  I  hung  up  over  man  like  second  purple 
evening  reds. 

Verily,  new  stars  also  I  made  them  see,  and  new 
nights  ;  and  over  clouds  and  day  and  night  I  spread 
out  laughter  like  a  many-coloured  tent. 

I  taught  them  all  my  fancying  and  planning :  to 
compose  into  one  thing  and  carry  together  whatever 
is  fragmentary  in  man  and  riddle  and  dismal  chance— 

As  a  poet,  solver  of  riddles  and  redeemer  of 
chance,  I  taught  them  to  work  at  the  future  and  to 
redeem  all  that  hath  been  by  creating. 

To  redeem  what  is  past  in  man  and  to  transvalue 
every  '  It  was '  until  will  saith :  '  Thus  I  willed  !  Thus 
shall  I  will—' 

This  I  publicly  called  redemption,  this  alone  I 
taught  them  to  call  redemption. 

Now  I  wait  for  my  redemption — ,  that  I  may  go 
unto  them  for  the  last  time. 


For  once  more  will  I  go  unto  men.  Among  them 
will  I  perish,  dying  will  I  give  them  my  richest  gift! 

I  learned  that  from  the  sun  when  he  goeth  down, 
the  over-rich  one.  Then  he  poureth  gold  into  the  sea, 
out  of  his  inexhaustible  wealth — 

So  that  the  poorest  fisherman  even  roweth  with 
a  golden  oar  !  For  this  I  saw  once,  and  gazing  upon 
it  wearied  not  of  tears. 

Like  the  sun,  Zarathustra  will  go  down.  Now  he 
sitteth  here  and  waiteth ;  round  him  old  broken  tables 
and  new  tables  half  written  upon. 


Behold,  here  is  a  new  table  !  But  where  are  my 
brethren  to  carry  it  down  unto  the  valley  and  into 
hearts  of  flesh  ? 

Thus  my  great  love  unto  the  most  remote  com- 
mandeth  :  'Spare  not  thy  neighbour  !  Man  is  a  some- 
thing that  must  be  surpassed.' 

There  are  numerous  ways  and  modes  of  surpass- 
ing. See  thou  unto  it !  But  only  a  buffoon  thinketh  : 
'  Man  can  be  passed  over  also.' 

Surpass  thyself  even  in  thy  neighbour !  And  a 
right  thou  canst  take  as  a  prey,  thou  shalt  not  allow 
to  be  given  ! 

What  thou  dost,  no  one  can  do  unto  thee.  Behold, 
there  is  no  retaliation. 


Whoever  cannot  command  himself,  shall  obey.  And 
many  a  one  can  command  himself;  but  there  lacketh 
much  in  his  obeying  himself! 


Thus  willeth  the  tribe  of  noble  souls :  they  wish 
not  to  have  anything  for  nothing,  least  of  all,  life. 

Whoever  is  of  the  mob,  will  live  for  nothing.  But 
we  others  unto  whom  life  gave  itself, — we  are  ever 
wondering  "what  we  shah1  best  give  in  return  ! 

And,  verily,  this  is  a  noble  speech,  that  saith : 
'  What  we  are  promised  by  life,  we  shall  keep  unto 
life  ! ' 

One  shall  not  wish  to  enjoy  one's  self  where  one 
doth  not  give  enjoyment.  And — one  shall  not  -wish  to 
enjoy  one's  self! 

For  enjoyment  and  innocence  are  the  most  bash- 
ful things.  Neither  liketh  to  be  sought.  One  shall  have 
them.  But  rather  than  for  them,  one  shall  seek  for 
guilt  and  pains  ! 

O  my  brethren,  whoever  is  a  firstling  is  ever  sacri- 
ficed. Now  we  are  firstlings. 

We  all  bleed  at  secret  tables  of  sacrifice  ;  we  all 
burn  and  roast  in  honour  of  old  idols. 


Our  best  is  still  young.  That  tickleth  old  palates. 
Our  flesh  is  tender,  our  skin  is  merely  a  lambskin — 
how  should  we  not  excite  old  idol-priests  ! 

In  ourselves  he  still  liveth,  the  old  idol-priest  who 
roasteth  our  best  for  his  own  dinner.  Alas  !  my  brethren, 
how  could  firstlings  not  be  sacrifices  ? 

But  thus  our  tribe  willeth.  And  I  love  them  who 
wish  not  to  keep  themselves.  The  perishing  I  love 
with  mine  entire  love  ;  for  they  go  beyond. 


To  be  true — few  are  able  to  be  so  !  And  he  who 
is  able  doth  not  want  to  be  so.  But  least  of  all  the 
good  are  able. 

Oh,  these  good  !  Good  men  never  speak  the  truth. 
To  be  good  in  that  way  is  a  sickness  for  the  mind. 

They  yield,  these  good,  they  submit  themselves  ; 
their  heart  saith  what  is  said  unto  it,  their  foundation 
obeyeth.  But  whoever  obeyeth  doth  not  hear  himself  ! 

All  that  is  called  evil  by  the  good  must  come 
together  in  order  that  one  truth  be  born.  O  my 
brethren,  are  ye  evil  enough  for  this  truth  ? 

The  bold  adventuring,  the  long  mistrust,  the  cruel 
Nay,  satiety,  the  cutting  into  what  is  living — how 
rarely  do  all  these  come  together  !  But  by  such  seed 
— truth  is  procreated  ! 

Beside  the  bad  conscience  hitherto  all  knowledge 
hath  grown  !  Break,  break,  ye  knowing,  the  old  tables  ! 


When  the  water  hath  poles,  when  gang-way  and 
railing  jump  over  a  stream — verily,  no  one  findeth  belief 
who  saith  :  '  Everything  is  in  stream. ' 

But  even  churls  contradict  him.  '  How  ? '  say  the 
churls,  '  all  is  said  to  be  in  the  stream  ?  Poles  and 
railings  are  evidently  above  the  stream  ! ' 

'Above   the   stream  all  is  firm,    all  the   values   of 
things,  the  bridges,  concepts,  all  "  good  "  and  "  evil  "- 
all  that  is  firm  ! ' 

When  even  the  hard  winter  cometh,  the  subduer 
of  streams,  then  even  the  wittiest  learn  mistrust.  And, 
verily,  not  only  churls  say  then  :  '  Should  perhaps 
everything — stand  still  ? ' 

'At  bottom  everything  standeth  still' — that  is  a 
proper  winter-doctrine,  a  good  thing  for  a  sterile  time, 
a  good  comfort  for  winter  sleepers  and  fire-side-mopers. 

'At  bottom  everything  standeth  still.'  But  the 
thaw-wind  preacheth  the  contrary  / 

The  thaw-wind,  a  bull  which  is  no  ploughing  bull, 
—a  raging  bull,  a  destroyer  that  breaketh  ice  with 
wrathful  horns  !  But  ice — breaketh  gang-ways  ! 

O  my  brethren,  is  not  now  all  in  stream  ?  Have 
not  all  railings  and  gangways  fallen  into  the  water  ? 
Who  would  still  cling  unto  '  good '  and  '  evil  ? ' 


'  Woe  unto  us  !  All  hail  unto  ourselves  !  The  thaw- 
wind  bloweth  ! '  Thus  preach,  my  brethren,  through 
all  lanes  ! 


There  is  an  old  illusion,  called  good  and  evil. 
Round  fortune-tellers  and  astrologers  hitherto  the  wheel 
of  that  illusion  hath  turned. 

Once  the  folk  believed  in  fortune-tellers  and  astro- 
logers, and  therefore  they  believed :  '  All  is  fate. 
Thou  shalt ;  for  thou  must ! ' 

Then  at  another  time  they  mistrusted  all  fortune- 
tellers and  astrologers,  and  therefore  they  believed  : 
'  All  is  freedom.  Thou  canst ;  for  thou  wilt.' 

O  my  brethren,  as  to  the  stars  and  the  future, 
there  hath  only  been  illusion,  not  knowledge.  And 
therefore,  as  to  good  and  evil,  there  hath  also  been 
illusion  only,  not  knowledge  ! 


'  Thou  shalt  not  rob ! '  '  Thou  shalt  not  commit 
manslaughter  ! '  Such  words  were  once  called  holy  ; 
before  them  the  folk  bent  their  knees  and  heads  and 
took  off  their  shoes. 

But  I  ask  you  :  Where  in  the  world  have  there 
ever  been  better  robbers  and  murderers  than  such  holy 
words  ? 


Is  there  not  in  all  life — robbing  and  manslaughter  ? 
And  by  calling  such  words  holy,  did  they  not  murder 
truth  itself? 

Or  was  it  a  sermon  of  death,  to  call  that  holy 
which  contradicted  all  life  and  counselled  against  it  ? 
O  my  brethren,  break,  break  the  old  tables  ! 


My  pity  for  all  that  is  past  is  in  seeing  that  it  is 
exposed — 

Exposed  unto  the  mercy,  the  spirit,  the  lunacy 
of  every  generation  that  cometh  and  transformeth 
everything  that  hath  been  into  its  own  bridge  ! 

A  great  lord  of  power  could  come,  an  artful  fiend, 
with  his  mercy  and  disgrace  to  compel  and  constrain 
whatever  is  past,  until  for  him  it  became  a  bridge 
and  an  omen  and  a  herald  and  a  cock-crow. 

But  this  is  the  other  danger  and  mine  other  pity  : 
whoever  is  of  the  mob,  his  memory  reacheth  back 
unto  his  grandfather  ;  but  with  his  grandfather  time 
ceaseth  to  exist. 

Thus  all  that  is  past  is  exposed.  For  one  day  it 
might  come  to  pass  that  the  mob  would  become  master, 
and  all  time  would  be  drowned  in  shallow  waters. 

Therefore,  O  my  brethren,  a  new  nobility  is  requisite 
which  is  opposed  unto  all  mob  and  all  that  is  tyrannic 
and  writeth  on  new  tables  the  word  '  noble.' 


For  many  noble  ones  are  requisite,  and  noble  ones 
of  many  kinds,  in  order  that  there  be  nobility  /  Or, 
as  I  said  once  in  a  figure  :  '  That  exactly  is  godli- 
ness, that  there  are  Gods,  but  no  God  ! ' 


O  my  brethren,  I  consecrate  you  to  be,  and  show 
unto  you  the  way  unto  a  new  nobility.  Ye  shall  be- 
come procreators  and  breeders  and  sowers  of  the 

Verily,  ye  shall  not  become  a  nobility  one  might 
buy  like  shop-keepers  with  shop-keepers'  gold.  For  all 
that  hath  its  fixed  price  is  of  little  value. 

Not  whence  ye  come  be  your  honour  in  future, 
but  whither  ye  go  !  Your  will,  and  your  foot  that 
longeth  to  get  beyond  yourselves, — be  that  your  new 
honour ! 

Verily,  not  that  ye  have  served  a  prince — of  what 
concern  are  princes  now? — or  that  ye  have  become  a 
bulwark  unto  that  which  standeth,  in  order  that  it 
might  stand  firmer  ! 

Not  that  your  kin  hath  become  courtly  at  courts, 
and  that  ye  have  learnt  to  stand  long  hours  in  shallow 
ponds, — many-coloured,  flamingo-like — 

(For  to  be  able  to  stand  is  a  merit  with  courtiers; 
and  all  courtiers  believe  that  to  be  allowed  to  sit  is 
part  of  the  bliss  after  death  !) 


Nor  that  a  spirit,  called  holy,  led  your  forefathers 
into  lands  of  promise,  which  /  do  not  praise  (for 
where  there  grew  the  evilest  of  all  trees,  the  cross, — in 
that  land  there  is  nothing  worthy  of  praise  !) 

And,  verily,  wherever  this  'holy  ghost'  led  his 
knights,  always  in  such  expeditions  goats  and  geese 
and  cross-heads  and  wrong-heads  led  the  train  ! 

O  my  brethren,  not  backward  shall  your  nobility 
gaze,  but  forward !  Expelled  ye  shall  be  from  all 
fathers'  and  forefathers'  lands  ! 

Your  children's  land  ye  shall  love  (be  this  love 
your  new  nobility!),  the  land  undiscovered,  in  the 
remotest  sea  !  For  it  I  bid  your  sails  seek  and  seek  ! 
In  your  children  ye  shall  make  amends  for  being 
your  fathers'  children.  Thus  ye  shall  redeem  all  that 
is  past !  This  new  table  I  put  over  you  ! 


'  Wherefore  live  ?  All  is  vanity.  To  live — that 
meaneth  to  thrash  straw.  To  live — i.  e.,  to  burn  one's 
self  and  yet  not  become  warm.' 

Such  ancient  talk  is  still  regarded  as  '  wisdom.' 
Even  because  it  is  ancient  and  smelleth  damp,  it  is 
honoured  the  more.  Even  mould  maketh  noble. 

Children  were  allowed  to  speak  thus.  They  fear 
the  fire  because  it  burned  them  !  There  is  much 
childishness  in  the  old  books  of  wisdom. 


And  he  who  always  thrasheth  straw — how  could 
he  be  allowed  to  backbite  thrashing  !  With  such  a 
fool  one  would  have  to  muzzle  his  mouth  ! 

Such  folk  sit  down  unto  dinner  and  bring  nothing 
with  them,  not  even  a  good  hunger.  And  now  they 
backbite  :  '  All  is  vanity  ! ' 

But  to  eat  well  and  drink  well,  O  my  brethren,  is, 
verily,  no  vain  art !  Break,  break  the  tables  of  those 
who  are  never  joyful ! 

'  Unto  the  pure  all  things  are  pure ' — thus  say  the 
folk.  But  I  tell  you  :  '  Unto  the  swine  all  things  be- 
come swine  ! ' 

Therefore  the  enthusiasts  and  hypocrites,  whose 
very  heart  hangeth  down,  preach  :  '  The  world  itself  is 
a  filthy  monster.' 

For  they  are  all  of  an  unclean  mind  ;  in  particular 
those  who  have  neither  quiet  nor  rest ;  unless  it  be 
that  they  see  the  world  from  the  back, — those  back- 
worlds-men  ! 

I  tell  it  to  their  face,  although  it  doth  not  sound 
lovely :  '  Therein  the  world  resembleth  man,  that  it  hath 
a  backside, — thus  much  is  true  ! ' 

There  is  much  filth  in  the  world, — thus  much  is 
true  !  But  for  that  reason  the  world  itself  is  not  yet 
a  filthy  monster  ! 


It  is  wisdom  therein,  that  much  in  the  world 
smelleth  ill.  Loathing  itself  createth  wings  and  well- 
divining  powers  ! 

In  the  best  one  even,  there  is  something  loathsome. 
And  even  the  best  one  is  a  something  that  must  be 
surpassed  ! 

O  my  brethren,  there  is  much  wisdom  in  the  fact 
that  there  is  much  filth  in  the  world  ! 


Such  sayings  I  heard  pious  back-worlds-men  say 
unto  their  conscience,  and,  verily,  without  cunning  or 
deceitfulness, — although  there  is  nothing  more  deceit- 
ful in  the  world,  nor  anything  worse. 

'  Let  the  world  be  the  world !  Lift  not  even  a 
finger  against  it ! ' 

'  Let  anybody  who  careth  to  do  so  throttle  and 
sting  and  flay  and  scrape  the  folk  !  Lift  not  even  a 
finger  against  it !  Thereby  they  shall  one  day  learn 
to  renounce  the  world.' 

And  thine  own  reason — thou  shalt  thyself  throttle 
and  choke  it ;  for  it  is  a  reason  of  this  world.  Thereby 
thou  thyself  learnest  to  renounce  the  world.' 

Break,  break,  O  my  brethren,  these  old  tables 
of  the  pious  !  Break  into  pieces  by  your  speech  the 
saying  of  the  calumniators  of  the  world  ! 



'Whoever  learneth  much,  unlearneth  all  violent 
desiring.'  Men  whisper  that  to-day  into  one  another's 
ears  in  all  dark  lanes. 

'Wisdom  maketh  weary.  Nothing  is  worth  while. 
Thou  shalt  not  desire  ! '  This  new  table  I  found  hang- 
ing even  in  open  markets. 

Break,  O  my  brethren,  break  also  this  new  table! 
The  weary  of  the  world  have  hung  it  up,  and  the 
preachers  of  death,  and  the  jailers  also.  For,  behold, 
it  is  moreover  a  sermon  unto  slavery  ! 

Because  they  learned  badly  and  learned  not  the 
best,  and  learned  everything  too  early  and  everything 
too  quickly  because  they  dined  badly, — they  have  got 
that  soured  stomach. 

For  their  mind  is  a  soured  stomach.  //  counsel- 
leth  them  unto  death  !  For,  verily,  my  brethren,  the 
mind  is  a  stomach  ! 

Life  is  a  well  of  delight.  But  all  wells  are  poisoned 
for  him  out  of  whom  the  soured  stomach  speaketh, 
the  father  of  affliction. 

To  perceive — that  is  lust  unto  him  who  hath  the 
will  of  a  lion  !  But  he  who  hath  become  weary,  is 
himself  '  willed '  only  ;  with  him  all  waves  play. 

And  thus  it  is  always  the  way  of  weak  men : 
they  lose  themselves  on  their  ways.  And  at  last  their 


weariness  asketh :  '  Wherefore  have  we  ever  gone 
ways  !  All  is  the  same  ! ' 

Unto  their  ears  it  soundeth  lovely  when  there  is 
preached  :  '  Nothing  is  worth  while  !  Ye  shall  not 
will ! '  But  this  is  a  sermon  unto  slavery. 

O  my  brethren,  as  a  fresh  roaring  wind  Zara- 
thustra  cometh  unto  all  who  are  weary  of  the  way. 
Many  noses  he  will  make  sneeze. 

Even  through  walls  bloweth  my  free  breath,  and 
into  prisons  and  imprisoned  spirits  ! 

Willing  delivereth  !  For  willing  is  creating.  Thus  I 
teach.  And  only  for  the  purpose  of  creating  shall  ye 
learn  ! 

And  even  the  learning  ye  shall  only  learn  from 
me,  the  learning  well !  Whoever  hath  ears,  let  him 
hear  ! 


There  standeth  the  boat.  Over  there  perhaps  is 
the  way  into  great  nothingness.  But  who  will  step 
into  this  '  perhaps  ? ' 

No  one  of  you  will  step  into  the  boat  of  death  ! 
How  then  can  ye  be  weary  of  the  world  ! 

Weary  of  the  world  !  And  ye  did  not  even  part 
with  earth !  Longing  I  found  you  still  for  earth, 
fallen  in  love  with  your  own  weariness  of  earth  ! 

Not  in  vain  your  lip  hangeth  down.  A  small 
earthly  desire  still  sitteth  on  it !  And  in  the  eye— doth 


there  not  swim  a  Kttle  cloud  of  unforgotten  earthly 
delight  ? 

There  are  on  earth  many  good  inventions,  some 
useful,  some  agreeable.  For  their  sake  earth  is  to  be 

And  all  kinds  of  things  so  well  invented  are  there, 
that  they  are  like  a  woman's  breast,  alike  useful  and 

But  ye  weary  ones  of  the  world  !  Ye  lazy  ones  of 
earth  !  Ye  should  be  lashed  with  whips  !  With  whip- 
lashes your  legs  shall  be  made  brisk  again. 

For  if  ye  are  not  sick  and  worn  out  wretches  of 
whom  earth  is  weary,  ye  are  sly  tardigrades  or 
dainty-mouthed,  hidden  lust-cats.  And  if  ye  wish  not 
to  run  again  gaily,  ye  shall — pass  away  ! 

Unto  the  incurable,  one  shall  not  go  to  be  physician. 
Thus  teacheth  Zarathustra.  Thus  ye  shall  pass  away  ! 

But  more  courage  is  requisite  for  making  an  end 
than  for  making  a  new  verse.  That  is  known  unto 
all  physicians  and  poets. 


O  my  brethren,  there  are  tables  created  by  weari- 
ness, and  tables  created  by  laziness,  rotten  laziness. 
And  although  they  speak  equally,  they  will  not  be 
heard  equally. 

Look  here   at  this  languishing  one  !    Only  a  span 


is  he  distant  from  his  goal,  but  from  weariness  he 
hath  defiantly  put  himself  down  into  the  dust — the 
courageous  one  ! 

From  weariness  he  yawneth  at  his  way,  and  at 
earth,  and  at  his  goal,  and  at  himself.  No  further  step 
will  he  take — this  courageous  one  ! 

Now  the  sun  gloweth  down  on  him,  and  the  dogs 
lick  his  sweat.  But  he  lieth  there  in  his  defiance  and 
will  rather  die  of  thirst. 

A  span  distant  from  his  goal  will  he  die  of  thirst ! 
Verily,  by  his  hair  ye  will  have  to  pull  him  into  his 
heaven — this  hero  ! 

Better  it  is,  ye  let  him  lie  where  he  hath  laid 
himself,  that  sleep  unto  him  may  come, — the  comforter 
with  a  cool,  murmuring  rain. 

Let  him  lie  until  he  awake  himself — until  he 
himself  gainsay  all  weariness  and  all  that  weariness 
taught  him  to  teach  ! 

Only,  my  brethren,  drive  the  dogs  away  from 
him,  the  lazy  sneaks,  and  all  the  swarming  flies — 

All  the  swarming  flies,  the  'educated,'  who — feast 
luxuriously  on  the  sweat  of  every  hero  ! 


I  draw  around  me  circles  and  holy  boundaries. 
Ever  fewer  mount  with  me  ever  higher  mountains.  I 
build  a  mountain  chain  out  of  ever  holier  mountains. 


But  wherever  ye^  mount  with  me,  O  my  brethren, 
see  to  it  that  no  parasite  mount  with  you  ! 

Parasite — that  is  a  worm,  a  creeping,  bent  one,  that 
wisheth  to  fatten  upon  your  hidden  sores  and  wounds. 

And  this  is  its  art,  that  it  findeth  out  ascending 
souls,  where  they  are  weary.  In  your  sorrow  and  bad 
mood,  in  your  tender  shame,  he  buildeth  his  loath- 
some nest. 

Wherever  the  strong  is  weak,  and  the  noble  much- 
too-mild — there  he  buildeth  his  loathsome  nest.  The 
parasite  dwelleth  where  the  great  one  hath  small 
hidden  wounds. 

What  is  the  highest  kind  of  all  that  is,  and  what 
is  the  lowest  ?  The  parasite  is  the  lowest  kind.  But 
whoever  is  of  the  highest  kind  feedeth  the  most 

For  that  soul  which  hath  the  longest  ladder  and 
can  step  down  deepest — how  should  not  the  most 
parasites  sit  on  it  ? 

The  most  comprehensive  soul  which  can  within  itself 
go  furthest  and  stray  and  rove  ;  the  most  necessary 
one  which  from  lust  precipitateth  itself  into  chance  ; 

The  being  soul  which  diveth  down  into  becoming ; 
the  having  one  that  longeth  to  get  into  willing  and 
desiring  ; 

The  soul  fleeing  from  itself  and  catching  itself 
in  the  widest  circle ;  the  wisest  soul,  unto  which 
foolishness  speaketh  sweetest ; 


The  soul  that  loveth  itself  most,  in  which  all 
things  have  their  streaming  and  back-streaming  and 
ebb  and  flood  !  Oh  !  how  should  the  highest  soul  not 
have  the  worst  parasites  ? 


O  my  brethren,  say,  am  I  cruel  ?  But  I  say  :  'What 
is  falling  already,  shall  be  struck  down.' 

The  All  of  to-day — it  falleth,  it  decayeth.  Who  would 
keep  it  ?  But  I — I  will  strike  down  it  besides  ! 

Know  ye  the  voluptuousness  that  rolleth  stones 
into  steep  depths  ?  These  men  of  to-day — look  at 
them,  how  they  roll  into  my  depths  ! 

A  prelude  I  am  of  better  players,  O  my  brethren  ! 
An  example  !  Act  after  mine  example  ! 

And  him  whom  ye  do  not  teach  to  fly,  teach- 
how  to  fall  quicker  ! 


I  love  the  brave.  But  it  is  not  enough  to  be  a 
swordsman,  one  must  also  know  against  whom  to  use 
the  sword  ! 

And  often  there  is  more  bravery  in  keeping  quiet 
and  going  past,  in  order  to  spare  one's  self  for  a 
worthier  enemy  ! 

Ye  shall   have  only  enemies  who  are  to  be  hated, 


but  not  enemies  who-  are  to  be  despised.  Ye  must  be 
proud  of  your  enemy.  Thus  I  taught  you  once  before. 

Ye  shall  reserve  yourselves  for  the  worthier  enemy, 
O  my  friends  !  Therefore  ye  have  to  pass  by  many 

In  particular  ye  have  to  pass  by  much  rabble  that 
maketh  a  din  of  people  and  peoples  in  your  ears. 

Keep  your  eye  pure  from  their  For  and  Against ! 
Much  right  is  there  and  much  wrong.  Whoever  look- 
eth  on,  waxeth  angry. 

To  look  on,  to  use  one's  sword — in  that  case  it  is 
one  and  the  same  thing.  Therefore  depart  into  the 
forests  and  put  your  sword  to  sleep  ! 

Go  your  ways.  And  let  people  and  peoples  go 
theirs  !  Verily,  dark  ways,  on  which  not  a  single  hope 
lighteneth  any  longer  ! 

Let  the  shopkeeper  rule  there  where  everything 
that  still  shineth  is  shopkeepers'  gold.  It  is  no  longer 
the  time  of  kings.  For  what  to-day  calleth  itself  a 
people  deserveth  no  kings. 

Behold,  how  these  peoples  now  themselves  act  like 
shopkeepers.  They  seek  the  smallest  profits  out  of 
every  sort  of  rubbish  ! 

They  lie  in  ambush  for  each  other  ;  they  obtain 
things  from  each  other  by  lying  in  wait  That  is 
called  by  them  'good  neighbourliness.'  Oh,  blessed, 
remote  time,  when  a  people  said  unto  itself:  'I  will 
be — master  over  peoples  ! ' 


For,  my  brethren,  what  is  best,  shall  rule;  what  is 
best,  "will  rule !  And  where  the  teaching  soundeth 
different,  the  best  is — lacking. 


If  they  had  bread  for  nothing,  alas  ! — for  what 
would  they  cry  !  Their  maintenance — that  is  their  proper 
entertainment.  And  they  shall  have  a  hard  life  ! 

Beasts  of  prey  they  are.  In  their  'working' — there 
is  even  preying,  in  their  '  earning ' — there  is  even  out- 
witting !  Therefore  they  shall  have  a  hard  life  ! 

Thus  they  shall  become  better  beasts  of  prey,  finer, 
cleverer,  more  like  man.  For  man  is  the  best  beast  of 

From  all  animals  man  hath  plundered  their  virtues. 
The  reason  is  that  man  hath  had  the  hardest  life  of 
all  animals. 

Only  the  birds  surpass  him.  And  if  man  would 
learn  to  fly  in  addition,  alas,  -whither — would  his  lust 
of  prey  fly  upwards  / 


Thus  would  I  have  man  and  woman  :  fit  for  warfare 
the  one,  fit  for  giving  birth  the  other,  but  both  fit  for 
dancing  with  head  and  legs. 

And  be  that  day  reckoned  lost  on  which  we  did 
not  dance  once !  And  be  every  truth  called  false 
with  which  no  laughter  was  connected  ! 



Your  concluding  of  marriages — see  to  it  that  it  be 
not  a  bad  concluding  !  Ye  have  concluded  too  quickly  ; 
thus  followeth  therefrom — adultery  ! 

And  yet  better  is  adultery  than  bending  marriage, 
lying  in  marriage  !  Thus  spake  a  woman  unto  me  : 
'True,  I  brake  marriage,  but  first  marriage  brake — 
me  !' 

Ill-coupled  ones  I  always  found  to  be  the  worst 
revengeful.  They  take  revenge  on  the  whole  world, 
because  they  no  longer  walk  about  singly. 

Therefore  I  will  that  honest  ones  speak  unto  each 
other  :  '  We  love  each  other.  Let  us  see  to  it  that  we 
keep  ourselves  in  love  !  Or  shall  our  mutual  promise 
be  a  mistake  ? ' 

'  Give  us  a  term  and  a  small  marriage,  that  we 
may  see  to  it  whether  we  are  fit  for  the  great  marri- 
age !  It  is  a  great  thing  to  be  always  in  pairs  ! ' 

Thus  I  counsel  all  honest  ones.  And  what  would 
be  my  love  unto  beyond-man  and  unto  all  that  is  to 
come,  if  I  should  counsel  and  speak  differently  ! 

Not  only  shall  ye  propagate  yourselves,  but  ye 
shall  propagate  upwards.  Thereto,  O  my  brethren,  let 
the  garden  of  marriage  aid  you  ! 



Lo  !  he  who  became  wise  concerning  old  origins, 
will  at  last  seek  for  the  fountains  of  the  future  and 
for  new  origins. 

O  my  brethren,  it  will  not  be  long  that  new  peoples 
shall  arise  and  new  springs  gush  down  into  new  depths. 

For  the  earthquake — encumbereth  many  wells,  and 
createth  much  languishing.  That  will  also  bring  to 
light  inner  powers  and  hidden  things. 

The  earthquake  maketh  new  springs  appear.  In 
the  earthquake  of  old  peoples  new  springs  gush  forth. 

And  whoever  crieth  :  '  Behold,  here  is  one  well  for 
many  thirsty  ones,  one  heart  for  many  longing  ones, 
one  will  for  many  tools' — round  him  gathereth  a 
people,  i.  e.,  many  trying. 

Who  is  able  to  command,  who  is  obliged  to  obey 
— that  is  tested  there  !  Alas,  with  what  long  seeking 
and  guessing  and  failing  and  learning  and  testing 
anew  ! 

Human  society — it  is  an  attempt ;  thus  I  teach, — it 
is  a  long  seeking.  But  it  seeketh  the  commander  ! 

An  attempt,  O  my  brethren  !  And  no  '  contract ! ' 
Break,  break  such  a  word  of  soft-hearts  and  half-and- 
half  ones  ! 



O  my  brethren  !  With  whom  is  the  greatest  danger 
for  the  whole  human  future  ?  Is  it  not  with  the  good 
and  just  ? 

Because  they  are  those  who  speak  and  feel  in 
their  heart :  '  We  know  already  what  is  good  and  just ; 
we  have  it  in  addition.  Alas,  for  those  who  still  seek 
for  it ! ' 

And  whatever  harm  the  wicked  may  do,  the  harm 
of  the  good  is  the  most  harmful  harm  ! 

And  whatever  harm  the  calumniators  of  the  world 
may  do,  the  harm  of  the  good  is  the  most  harmful 

O  my  brethren,  once  upon  a  time  a  man  looked 
into  the  heart  of  the  good  and  just,  and  said  :  '  They 
are  the  Pharisees.'  But  he  was  not  understood. 

The  good  and  just  themselves  were  not  allowed 
to  understand  him.  Their  mind  was  imprisoned  in  their 
good  conscience.  The  stupidity  of  the  good  is  un- 
fathomably  clever. 

But  this  is  the  truth  :  the  good  must  be  Pharisees. 
They  have  no  choice  ! 

The  good  must  crucify  him  who  inventeth  his  own 
virtue  !  That  is  the  truth  ! 

But  the  second  one  who  discovered  their  land,  the 
land,  heart  and  soil  of  the  good  and  just — he  it  was 
who  asked  :  '  Whom  do  they  hate  most  ? ' 


The  creator  they  hate  most, — him  who  breaketh 
tables  and  old  values,  the  breaker.  They  call  him  a 

For  the  good  cannot  create.  They  are  always  the 
beginning  of  the  end. 

They  crucify  him  who  writeth  new  values  on 
new  tables  ;  they  sacrifice  unto  themselves  the  future  ; 
they  crucify  the  whole  human  future  ! 

The  good — they  have  always  been  the  beginning 
of  the  end. 


O  my  brethren,  understood  ye  this  word  ?  And 
what  once  I  said  of  the  last  man  ? 

With  whom  is  the  greatest  danger  for  the  whole 
human  future  ?  Is  it  not  with  the  good  and  just  ? 

Break,  break  the  good  and  just  !  O  my  brethren, 
understood  ye  this  word  ? 


Ye  flee  from  me  ?  Ye  are  terrified  ?  Ye  tremble 
in  the  presence  of  this  word  ? 

O  my  brethren,  when  I  bade  you  break  the  good 
and  the  tables  of  the  good — it  was  then  only  that  I 
put  man  on  board  ship  for  his  high  sea. 

Only  now  cometh  the  great  terror  unto  him,  the 
great  look  round,  the  great  illness,  the  great  loathing, 
the  great  sea-sickness. 


False  shores  and  false  securities  ye  were  taught 
by  the  good.  In  the  lies  of  the  good  ye  were  born 
and  hidden.  Through  the  good  everything  hath  be- 
come deceitful  and  crooked  from  the  bottom. 

But  he  who  discovered  the  land  'man,'  discovered 
also  the  land  'human  future.'  Now  ye  shall  be  unto 
me  sailors,  brave,  patient  ones  ! 

Walk  upright  in  time,  O  my  brethren,  learn  how 
to  walk  upright !  The  sea  stormeth.  Many  wish  to 
raise  themselves  with  your  help. 

The  sea  stormeth.  Everything  is  in  the  sea.  Up  ! 
Upwards  !  Ye  old  sailor  hearts  ! 

What  ?  A  fatherland  ?  Thither  striveth  our  rudder, 
where  our  children's  land  is.  Out  thither,  stormier 
than  the  sea,  our  great  longing  stormeth  ! 


'  Why  so  hard  ? '  said  once  the  charcoal  unto  the 
diamond,  '  are  we  not  near  relations  ? ' 

Why  so  soft  ?  O  my  brethren,  thus  I  ask  you. 
Are  ye  not — my  brethren  ? 

Why  so  soft,  so  unresisting,  and  yielding  ?  Why 
is  there  so  much  disavowal  and  abnegation  in  your 
hearts  ?  Why  is  there  so  little  fate  in  your  looks  ? 

And  if  ye  are  unwilling  to  be  fates,  and  inexor- 
able, how  could  ye  conquer  with  me  someday  ? 

And  if»your  hardness  would  not   glance,  and  cut, 


and  chip  into  pieces — how  could  ye  create  with  me 
someday  ? 

For  all  creators  are  hard.  And  it  must  seem  blessed- 
ness unto  you  to  press  your  hand  upon  millenniums 
as  upon  wax — 

Blessedness  to  write  upon  the  will  of  millenniums 
as  upon  brass — harder  than  brass,  nobler  than  brass. 
The  noblest  only  is  perfectly  hard. 

This  new  table,  O  my  brethren,  I  put  over  you  : 
'  Become  hard ! ' 


Oh,  thou  my  will !  Thou  change  of  all  needs,  thou, 
my  necessity  !  Save  me  from  all  small  victories  ! 

Thou  decree  of  my  soul  called  fate  by  myself! 
Thou  within-me  !  Thou  above-me  !  Save  and  spare 
me  for  one  great  fate  ! 

And  thy  last  greatness,  O  my  will,  spare  for  thy 
last,  in  order  to  be  inexorable  in  thy  victory  !  Alas, 
who  was  not  conquered  by  his  victory  ! 

Alas  !  whose  eye  did  not  grow  dim  in  this  drunken 
dawn  ?  Alas  !  whose  foot  did  not  stagger  and  forget 
how  to — stand  in  victory  ! 

That  one  day  I  may  be  ready  and  ripe  in  the 
great  noon  ;  ready  and  ripe  like  glowing  ore,  like  a 
cloud  pregnant  with  a  lightning,  and  a  swelling  milk- 
udder  ; 


Ready  unto  myself  and  unto  my  most  secret 
will ;  a  bow  eager  for  its  arrow  ;  an  arrow  eager  for 
its  star  ; 

A  star,  ready  and  ripe  in  its  noon,  glowing,  per- 
forated, blessed  with  destroying  arrows  of  the  sun. 

A  sun  himself  and  an  inexorable  will  of  a  sun, 
ready  for  destroying  in  victory  ! 

O  will,  thou  change  of  all  needs,  thou  my  necessity ! 
Reserve  me  for  one  great  victory  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


One  morning,  not  long  after  his  return  unto  the 
cave,  Zarathustra  jumped  up  from  his  couch  like  a 
madman.  He  cried  with  a  terrible  voice,  and  behaved 
as  if  some  one  else  was  lying  on  the  couch  and  would 
not  get  up  from  it.  And  so  sounded  Zarathustra's  voice 
that  his  animals  ran  unto  him  in  terror,  and  that  from 
all  caves  and  hiding  places  which  were  nigh  unto  Zara- 
thustra's cave  all  animals  hurried  away,  flying,  flutter- 
ing, creeping,  jumping,  according  to  the  kind  of  foot 
or  wing  they  had  been  given.  But  Zarathustra  spake 
these  words  : 

"  Up,  abyss-like  thought,  from  my  depth  !  I  am  thy 
cock  and  morning-dawn,  O  sleepy  worm  !  Up  !  Up  ! 
My  voice  shall  crow  thee  awake  ! 

Untie  the  fetter  of  thine  ears !  Hearken !  For  I  will 
hear  thee  !  Up  !  Up !  Here  is  thunder  enough  so  that 
even  graves  learn  to  listen  ! 

And  wipe  the  sleep  and  all  that  is  dim  and  blind 
from  thine  eyes !  Listen  unto  me  with  thine  eyes 
also  !  My  voice  is  a  medicine  even  for  the  born  blind. 



And  if  thou  art  'once  awake,  thou  shalt  remain 
awake  for  ever.  Not  my  way  is  it  to  awaken  great- 
grandmothers  from  sleep  in  order  to  ask  them  to 
sleep  on  ! 

Thou  movest,  thou  stretchest  thyself,  thou  rattiest  ? 
Up  !  Up  !  Not  rattle — speak  thou  shalt  unto  me  ! 
Zarathustra,  the  ungodly,  calleth  thee  ! 

I,  Zarathustra,  the  advocate  of  life,  the  advocate  of 
suffering,  the  advocate  of  the  circle — I  call  thee,  my 
most  abyss-like  thought ! 

Hail  unto  me  !  Thou  comest ;  I  hear  thee !  Mine 
abyss  speaketh  !  My  last  depth  have  I  turned  round 
unto  the  light ! 

Hail  unto  me  !  Come  nigh  !  Shake  hands ha  ! 

Leave  me,  hahaha  !—  — Loathing,  loathing,  loathing  ! 
Alas,  for  me  ! " 

No  sooner  had  Zarathustra  said  these  words  than 
he  fell  down  like  one  dead,  and  remained  long  like 
one  dead.  But  when  he  again  became  conscious, 
he  was  pale  and  trembled,  and  remained  lying,  and  for 
a  long  while  would  neither  eat  nor  drink.  This  state 
of  his  lasted  seven  days.  But  his  animals  left  him 
not,  day  or  night,  unless  that  the  eagle  flew  off 
to  get  food.  And  whatever  prey  he  fetched  and 
caught,  he  laid  on  Zarathustra's  couch  so  that  at  last 


Zarathustra  was  buried  under  yellow  and  red  berries, 
grapes,  rose-apples,  sweet-smelling  pot-herbs  and  pine- 
cones.  But  at  his  feet  two  lambs  were  spread  which 
the  eagle  had,  with  much  trouble,  carried  off  from  their 

At  last,  after  seven  days,  Zarathustra  rose  on  his 
couch,  took  a  rose-apple  in  his  hand,  smelt  it,  and 
found  its  odour  sweet.  Then  his  animals  thought  the 
time  had  come  for  speaking  unto  him. 

"  O  Zarathustra,"  said  they,  "  now  thou  hast  lain  like 
that  for  seven  days,  with  heavy  eyes.  Wilt  thou  not 
now  stand  again  on  thy  feet  ? 

Step  out  from  thy  cave ;  the  world  waiteth  for 
thee  like  a  garden.  The  wind  playeth  with  heavy 
odours  longing  for  thee  ;  and  all  brooklets  would  fain 
run  after  thee. 

All  things  long  for  thee,  because  thou  remainedst 
seven  days  alone.  Step  out  from  thy  cave  !  All  things 
wish  to  be  thy  physicians  ! 

Hath  a  new  perception  come  unto  thee,  a  sour, 
hard  one  ?  Like  a  dough  mixed  with  leaven  thou 
didst  lie  there.  Thy  soul  rose  and  overflowed  all  its 

"  O  mine  animals,"  answered  Zarathustra,  "  talk  on 
like  that  and  let  me  listen  !  It  refresheth  me  to  hear 
talking  like  that.  Where  there  is  talk,  the  world  lieth 
like  a  garden  unto  me. 

How  lovely  it  is  that  words  and  tunes  exist !    Are 



not  words  and  tunes'  rainbows   und  seeming  bridges 
between  things  eternally  separated  ? 

Unto  each  soul  belongeth  a  different  world  ;  for 
each  soul,  every  other  soul  is  a  back-world. 

Between  things  most  like  unto  each  other,  semblance 
telleth  the  most  beautiful  lies.  For  the  smallest  gap  is 
the  most  difficult  to  bridge  over. 

For  me — how  could  there  be  an  out-of-me  ?  There 
is  no  outside  !  But  we  forget  that  when  hearing  any 
tunes.  How  lovely  it  is  that  we  forget  ! 

Are  things  not  given  names  and  tunes,  in  order 
that  man  may  find  recreation  in  things  ?  Speech  is  a 
beautiful  folly.  Thereby  man  danceth  over  all  things. 

How  lovely  is  all  speech  and  all  lying  of  tunes  ! 
With  tunes  our  love  danceth  on  many-coloured  rain- 

"  O  Zarathustra,"  then  said  the  animals.  "  Unto  such 
as  think  like  us,  all  things  themselves  dance.  They 
come  and  shake  hands  and  laugh  and  flee — and  return. 

Everything  goeth,  everything  returneth.  Forever 
rolleth  the  wheel  of  existence.  Everything  dieth, 
everything  blossometh  again.  Forever  runneth  the 
year  of  existence. 

Everything  breaketh,  everything  is  joined  anew. 
Forever  the  same  house  of  existence  buildeth  itself. 
All  things  separate,  all  things  greet  each  other  again. 
Forever  faithful  unto  itself  the  ring  of  existence  re- 


At  every  moment  existence  beginneth.  Round  every 
Here  rolleth  the  ball  There.  The  midst  is  everywhere. 
Crooked  is  the  path  of  eternity." 

"  O  ye  buffoons  and  barrel-organs,"  answered  Zara- 
thustra,  and  smiled  again,  "  how  well  ye  know  what 
had  to  be  done  in  seven  days — 

And  how  that  monster  crept  into  my  throat  and 
choked  me  !  But  I  bit  its  head  off  and  spat  it  away 
from  me. 

And  ye — ye  have  already  made  out  of  it  a  barrel- 
organ  song  ?  But  now  I  lie  here,  weary  from  that 
biting  and  spitting  away,  sick  still  with  mine  own 

And  ye  were  the  spectators  of  all  that  ?  O  mine 
animals,  are  even  ye  cruel  ?  Did  ye  like  to  look  at 
my  great  pain,  as  men  do  ?  For  man  is  the  cruellest 

When  gazing  at  tragedies,  bullfights  and  crucifix- 
ions, he  hath  hitherto  felt  happier  than  at  any  other 
time  on  earth.  And  when  he  invented  hell  for  himself, 
lo,  hell  was  his  heaven  upon  earth. 

When  the  great  man  crieth,  swiftly  the  small 
man  runneth  thither.  And  his  tongue  hangeth  out  of 
his  throat  from  lustfulness.  But  he  calleth  it  his  'pity.' 

The  small  man,  in  particular  the  poet, — how  eagerly 
doth  he  in  words  accuse  life  !  Hearken  unto  him,  but 
fail  not  to  hear  the  lust  which  is  contained  in  all  that 
accusing  ! 


Such  accusers  of  life — they  are  overcome  by  life 
with  a  blinking  of  the  eye.  '  Thou  lovest  me  ? '  saith 
the  impudent  one.  '  Wait  a  little ;  I  have  no  time  yet 
for  thee.' 

Man  is  the  cruellest  animal  towards  himself. 
And  in  all  who  call  themselves  '  sinners '  and  '  bearers 
of  the  cross'  and  'penitents,'  ye  shall  not  fail  to  hear 
the  lust  contained  in  that  complaining  and  accusing  ! 

And  myself? — will  I  thereby  be  the  accuser  of 
man  ?  Alas,  mine  animals,  that  alone  I  have  learnt 
hitherto,  that  the  wickedest  in  man  is  necessary  for 
the  best  in  him — 

That  all  that  is  wicked,  is  his  best  power  and  the 
hardest  stone  unto  the  highest  creator  ;  and  that  man 
must  become  better  and  more  wicked. 

Not  unto  that  stake  of  torture  was  I  fixed,  that 
I  know  :  man  is  wicked.  But  I  cried,  as  no  one  hath 
ever  cried  : 

'Alas,  that  his  wickedest  is  so  very  small !  Alas, 
that  his  best  is  so  very  small ! ' 

The  great  loathing  of  man, — it  choked  me,  it  had 
crept  into  my  throat  ;  and  what  the  fortune-teller 
foretold  :  'All  is  equal,  nothing  is  worth  while,  know- 
ledge choketh.' 

A  long  dawn  limped  in  front  of  me,  a  sadness 
weary  unto  death,  drunken  from  death,  and  speaking 
with  a  yawning  mouth. 

Eternally  he  recurreth,  man,  of  whom  thou  weari- 


est,  the  small  man.  Thus  yawned  my  sadness  and 
dragged  its  foot  and  could  not  fall  asleep. 

A  cave  became  the  human  earth  for  me,  its  chest 
fell  in,  all  that  liveth  became  unto  me  mould  of  men 
and  bones  and  a  rotten  past. 

My  sighing  sat  on  all  human  graves  and  could  no 
longer  get  up  ;  my  sighing  and  questioning  cried  like 
a  toad,  and  choked,  and  gnawed,  and  complained  by 
day  and  night : 

'Alas,  man  recurreth  eternally  !  The  small  man 
recurreth  eternally  ! ' 

Once  I  had  seen  both  naked,  the  greatest  man  and 
the  smallest  man — all-too-like  unto  each  other — all-too- 
human  even  the  greatest  man  ! 

All-too-small  the  greatest  one  !  That  was  my 
satiety  of  man  !  And  eternal  recurrence  even  of  the 
smallest  one !  That  was  my  satiety  of  all  existence. 

Alas!  loathing!  loathing!  loathing!"  Thus  spake 
Zarathustra,  and  sighed  and  shuddered  ;  for  he  remem- 
bered his  illness.  But  his  animals  would  not  allow 
him  to  speak  further. 

"  Speak  not  further,  thou  convalescent  one  ! "  Thus 
his  animals  answered.  "  But  go  out  where  the  world 
waiteth  for  thee  like  a  garden. 

Go  out  unto  the  roses  and  bees  and  flocks  of 
doves !  But  especially  unto  the  singing  birds,  that 
thou  mayest  learn  singing  from  them  ! 


For  singing  is  good  for  the  convalescent  ;  the 
healthy  one  may  speak.  And  when  the  healthy  one 
wanteth  songs  also,  he  wanteth  other  songs  than  the 
convalescent  one." 

"  O  ye  buffoons  and  barrel-organs,  be  silent ! "  Zara- 
thustra  answered  and  smiled  at  his  animals.  "How 
will  ye  know  what  comfort  I  invented  for  myself  in 
seven  days  ! 

That  I  was  compelled  to  sing  again — that  comfort 
I  invented  for  myself  and  that  convalescence.  Are  ye 
going  to  make  at  once  a  barrel-organ  song  even  out 
of  that  ?  " 

"  Speak  no  further,"  his  animals  answered  once 
more.  "  Rather,  thou  convalescent  one,  make  first  a 
lyre,  a  new  lyre  ! 

For,  behold,  O  Zarathustra  !  For  thy  new  songs 
new  lyres  are  requisite. 

Sing  and  foam  over,  O  Zarathustra,  heal  thy  soul 
with  new  songs,  that  thou  mayest  carry  thy  great 
fate  that  hath  not  yet  been  any  man's  fate  ! 

For  thine  animals  know  well,  O  Zarathustra,  who 
thou  art  and  must  become.  Behold,  thou  art  the 
teacher  of  eternal  recurrence.  That  is  now  thy 

That  thou  hast  to  be  the  first  to  teach  this  doc- 
trine— how  should  this  great  fate  not  also  be  thy 
greatest  danger  and  illness  ? 


Behold,  we  know  what  thou  teachest ;  that  all 
things  recur  eternally,  ourselves  included ;  and  that  we 
have  been  there  infinite  times  before,  and  all  things 
with  us. 

Thou  teachest  that  there  is  a  great  year  of  becom- 
ing, a  monstrous,  great  year.  It  must,  like  an  hour-glass, 
ever  turn  upside  down  again  in  order  to  run  down 
and  run  out — 

So  that  all  these  years  are  like  unto  each  other, 
in  the  greatest  and  in  the  smallest  things  ;  so  that  in 
every  great  year  we  are  like  unto  ourselves,  in  the 
greatest  and  in  the  smallest  things. 

And  if  thou  wouldst  now  die,  O  Zarathustra — be- 
hold, we  even  know  what  thou  wouldst  then  say  unto 
thyself.  But  thine  animals  pray  thee  not  to  die  yet ! 

Thou  wouldst  speak,  and  without  trembling,  on  the 
contrary  breathing  deeply  with  happiness.  For  a  great 
burden  and  sultriness  would  be  taken  from  thee,  thou 
most  patient  one  ! 

'  Now  I  die  and  vanish,'  thou  wouldst  say,  '  and 
in  a  moment  I  shall  be  nothing.  Souls  are  as  mortal 
as  bodies. 

But  the  knot  of  causes  recurreth  in  which  I  am 
twined.  It  will  create  me  again  !  I  myself  belong  unto 
the  causes  of  eternal  recurrence. 

I  come  back,  with  this  sun,  with  this  earth,  with 
this  eagle,  with  this  serpent — not  for  a  new  life,  or  a 
better  life,  or  an  eternal  life. 


I  come  eternally  back  unto  this  one  and  the 
same  life,  in  the  greatest  things  and  in  the  smallest 
things,  in  order  to  teach  once  more  the  eternal  recur- 
rence of  all  things; 

In  order  to  speak  again  the  word  of  the  great 
noon  of  earth  and  man ;  in  order  to  proclaim  again 
beyond-man  unto  man. 

I  have  spoken  my  word  ;  I  break  from  my  word. 
Thus  willeth  mine  eternal  fate.  As  a  proclaimer  I  perish ! 

The  hour  hath  come  now,  when  the  perishing  one 
blesseth  himself.  Thus — endeth  Zarathustra's  destruct- 
ion.' " 

The  animals  having  said  these  words,  were  silent 
and  waited  to  see  whether  Zarathustra  would  say 
anything  unto  them.  But  Zarathustra  did  not  hear 
that  they  were  silent.  On  the  contrary  :  he  lay  still, 
with  his  eyes  closed,  like  one  asleep,  although  he  did 
not  sleep.  For  he  was  communing  with  his  soul.  But 
the  serpent  and  the  eagle,  finding  him  thus  silent, 
respected  the  great  stillness  round  him  and  cautiously 


"  O  my  soul,  I  taught  thee  to  say  '  to-day,'  as  well 
as  'once'  and  'long  ago,'  and  to  dance  thy  jig  over 
all  Here  and  There  and  Elsewhere. 

O  my  soul,  I  redeemed  thee  from  all  corners  !  I 
brushed  down  from  thee  dust,  spiders  and  twilight. 

O  my  soul,  I  washed  the  small  shame  and  corner 
virtue  down  from  thee,  and  persuaded  thee  to  stand 
naked  before  the  eyes  of  the  sun  ! 

With  the  storm  which  is  called  'spirit,'  I  blew  over 
thine  undulating  sea.  All  clouds  I  blew  away  and 
throttled  even  the  throttler  called  'sin.' 

O  my  soul,  I  gave  thee  the  right  to  say  Nay  like 
the  storm,  and  to  say  Yea  as  the  open  sky  doth  !  Still 
like  light,  now  thou  standest  and  walkest  through 
denying  storms. 

O  my  soul,  I  gave  thee  back  freedom  over  created 
and  not  created  things  !  And  who  knoweth,  as  thou 
dost,  the  lust  of  what  is  to  come  ? 

O  my  soul,  I  taught  thee  the  despising  that  cometh 
not  like  the  gnawing  of  worms,  the  great,  loving  de- 
spising that  loveth  most  where  it  despiseth  most. 


O  my  soul,  I  taught  thee  thus  to  persuade,  so  that 
thou  even  persuadedst  the  reasons  unto  thy  side — like 
the  sun  which  even  persuadeth  the  sea  to  ascend  unto 
his  height ! 

O  my  soul,  I  took  from  thee  all  obeying,  bending 
of  knees  and  saying  lord  !  I  myself  gave  thee  the 
names  '  change  of  needs '  and  '  fate.' 

O  my  soul,  I  gave  thee  new  names  and  many- 
coloured  toys !  I  called  thee  '  fate '  and  '  orbit  of  orbits ' 
and  'navel-cord  of  time'  and  'azure  bell.' 

O  my  soul,  unto  thy  soil  gave  I  all  wisdom  to 
drink,  all  new  wines,  and  also  all  beyond-memory  old, 
strong  wines  of  wisdom  ! 

O  my  soul,  every  sun  I  poured  out  over  thee,  and 
every  night,  and  every  silence,  and  every  longing  ! 
Then  thou  grewest  up  unto  me  like  a  vine  plant. 

O  my  soul,  over-rich  and  heavy  thou  standest  there, 
a  vine  plant  with  swelling  udders  and  close  brown 
grapes — 

Close  and  pressed  from  thy  happiness,  waiting 
because  of  abundance,  and  bashful  even  because  of 
thy  waiting. 

O  my  soul,  there  is  certainly  now  here  a  soul  more 
full  of  love,  readier  to  embrace  and  more  comprehen- 
sive !  Where  could  the  future  and  what  is  past  be 
closer  together  than  with  thee  ? 

O  my  soul,  I  gave  thee  all,  and  all  my  hands  have 
become  empty  through  giving  unto  thee!  And  now! — 


now  thou  sayest  unto  me,  smiling  and  full  of  melan- 
choly :  'Which  of  us  hath  to  thank  the  other  ? 

Hath  the  giver  not  to  thank  the  taker  for  taking  ? 
Is  giving  not  a  necessity  ?  Is  taking  not  pity  ? ' 

O  my  soul,  I  understand  the  smile  of  thy  melan- 
choly. Thine  over-great  riches  themselves  now  stretch 
out  longing  hands  ! 

Thy  fulness  gazeth  over  roaring  seas  and  seeketh 
and  waiteth.  The  longing  of  over-abundance  gazeth 
from  the  smiling  heaven  of  thine  eyes  ! 

And,  verily,  O  my  soul !  Who  could  see  thy  smile 
and  not  melt  into  tears  ?  Angels  themselves  melt  into 
tears  because  of  the  over-kindness  of  thy  smile. 

Thy  kindness  and  over-kindness  wanteth  not  to 
complain  and  cry  !  And  yet,  O  my  soul,  thy  smile 
longeth  for  tears,  and  thy  trembling  mouth  longeth 
to  sob. 

'  Is  not  all  crying  a  complaining  ?  And  all  com- 
plaining an  accusing  ? '  Thus  thou  speakest  unto  thy- 
self, and  therefore,  O  my  soul,  thou  likest  better  to 
smile  than  to  pour  out  thy  sorrow — 

To  pour  out  in  gushing  tears  all  thy  sorrow  over 
thine  abundance,  and  over  all  the  longing  of  the  vine 
plant  for  vine-dressers  and  vine-knives  ! 

But  if  thou  wilt  not  cry,  nor  give  forth  in  tears 
thy  purple  melancholy,  thou  wilt  have  to  sing,  O  my 
soul !  Behold,  I  myself  smile  who  foretell  such  things 
unto  thee. 


Thou  wilt  have  to  sing  with  a  roaring  song,  until 
all  seas  are  stilled  in  order  to  hearken  unto  thy  long- 

Until  over  still,  longing  seas  the  boat  glideth, 
the  golden  wonder,  round  the  gold  of  which  all  good, 
bad,  strange  things  hop — 

Also  many  large  and  small  animals,  and  whatever 
hath  light,  strange  feet,  so  that  it  can  run  on  paths 
of  violet  blue. 

Until  it  reacheth  the  golden  wonder,  the  voluntary 
boat  and  its  master.  But  he  is  the  vine-dresser  who 
waiteth  with  diamond  vine-knife — 

Thy  great  liberator,  O  my  soul,  the  nameless  one 
for  whom  future  songs  only  will  find  names  !  And, 
verily,  already  thy  breath  smelleth  of  future  songs. 

Already  thou  glowest  and  dreamest  ;  already  thou 
drinkest  thirstily  from  all  deep,  sounding  wells  of 
comfort ;  already  thy  melancholy  resteth  in  the  bliss 
of  future  songs  ! 

O  my  soul,  now  I  have  given  thee  all,  and  even 
my  last,  and  all  my  hands  have  been  emptied  by 
giving  unto  thee  !  My  bidding  thee  sing,  lo,  that  was 
the  last  thing  I  had  ! 

My  bidding  thee  sing — say,  say  :  which  of  us  hath 
now  to  thank  the  other  ?  But  still  better  :  sing  unto 
me,  sing,  O  my  soul !  And  let  me  thank  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  Into  thine  eye  I  gazed  of  late,  O  life  !  Gold  I  saw 
shine  in  thy  night-like  eye.  My  heart  stood  still 
because  of  that  lust. 

A  golden  boat  saw  I  shine  on  night-like  waters,  a 
golden,  swinging  boat,  sinking,  drinking,  shining 

At  my  foot  which  is  frantic  to  dance  thou  castest 
thy  glance,  a  swinging  glance,  laughing,  asking, 

Twice  only  thou  movedst  thy  rattle  with  small 
hands.  There  my  foot  already  swung  frantic  to  dance. 

To  understand  thee,  my  toes  did  hearken,  my 
heels  did  rear.  For  the  dancer  weareth  in  his  toes 
his  ear  ! 

Unto  thy  side  I  jumped.  Then  thou  fleddest  back 
from  my  bound.  And  towards  me  played  the  tongue 
of  thy  hair  fleeing,  flying  round  ! 

Away  from  thee  and  from  thy  serpents,  I  made 
my  dances.  Then  thou  stoodest  there,  half  turned  round, 
the  eye  full  of  longing  glances. 


With  crooked  blinking,  thou  teachest  me  crooked 
courses.  On  crooked  courses  my  foot  learneth  artful 

I  love  thee  when  thou  art  far ;  I  fear  thee  when 
thou  art  nigh.  Thy  flight  decoyeth  me  ;  thy  seeking 
annoyeth  me.  I  suffer  ;  but  for  thee  what  suffer  gaily 
would  not  I ! 

Her  coldness  inflameth ;  her  hatred  seduceth  ;  her 
flight  tameth  ;  sympathy  her  mocking  produceth. 

Who  would  not  hate  thee,  thou  great  binder,  twiner, 
tempter,  seeker,  finder !  Who  would  not  love  thy 
ways,  thou  innocent,  impatient,  storm-like  hurrying 
sinner  with  a  child's  gaze  ? 

Where  dost  thou  now  draw  me,  thou  unruly  para- 
gon ?  And  now  thou  fleest  from  me  again,  thou  sweet 
torn-boy  and  thankless  one  ! 

I  dance  after  thee.  Even  on  slight  traces  I  follow 
thee.  Where  art  thou  ?  Give  me  thy  hand  !  Or  even 
a  single  finger  give  me  ! 

Here  are  caves  and  thickets.  We  shall  go  astray! 
Halt !  Stand  still !  Seest  thou  not  owls  and  bats  flutter 
their  way  ? 

Thou  bat !  Thou  art  going  to  fool  me  ?  Thou  owl ! 
Where  are  we  ?  From  dogs  thou  learnedst  thus  to 
bark  and  howl  ! 

With  little  white  teeth  thou  grinnest  at  me  in  thy 
sweet  wise.  From  thy  little  curly  mane  spring  forth 
against  me  thine  evil  eyes  ! 


This  is  a  dance  over  stone  and  log  !  I  am  the 
huntsman.  Wilt  thou  be  my  chamois  or  my  dog  ? 

Now  beside  me  !  Thou  wicked  springer,  and 
quick  !  Now  up  !  Now  over  it ! — Alas  !  In  springing 
I  fell  myself  over  the  stick  ! 

Oh,  look  at  me  lying  here,  thou  tomboy,  how  for 
grace  I  pray  !  Fain  would  I  go  with  thee  on  a  much 
sweeter  way  ! 

The  way  of  love  through  bushes  many-coloured, 
still,  and  dim  !  Or  there  along  the  lake,  where  the 
goldfish  dance  and  swim  ! 

Thou  art  weary  now  ?  Yonder  there  are  evening 
reds  and  sheep  !  When  the  shepherds  play  the  flute, 
is  it  not  goodly  then  to  sleep  ? 

Thou  art  sore  wearied  ?  I  carry  thee  there.  Let 
thine  arms  now  sink  !  And  if  thou  art  thirsty, — I 
have  something.  But  thy  mouth  liketh  it  not  to  drink  ! 

Oh,  this  cursed  swift  pliant  snake  and  witch  hid- 
ing at  every  turn  !  Whither  art  thou  gone  ?  But  in 
my  face  I  feel  from  thy  hand  red  spots  and  double 
blotches  burn  ! 

I  am  weary  indeed  of  being  ever  a  stupid  shep- 
herd for  thee  ?  Thou  witch,  if  I  have  hitherto  sung 
unto  thee,  thou  shalt  now — cry  unto  me  ! 

Unto  the  rythm  of  my  whip  shalt  thou  now  dance 
and  cry  !  Did  I  remember  my  whip  ?  Ay  ! ' 



Then  life  answered  me  thus,  keeping  both  her  neat 
ears  shut : 

'  O  Zarathustra  !  Do  not  crack  thy  whip  so  terribly ! 
For  thou  knowest :  noise  murdereth  thought.  And 
even  now  very  tender  thoughts  come  unto  me. 

We  are  the  proper  pair  of  good-for-evil  things 
and  good-for-good  things.  Beyond  good  and  evil  we 
found  our  island  and  our  green  meadow — we  two 
alone  !  Therefore  we  have  to  be  fond  of  each  other ! 

And  although  we  do  not  love  each  other  from 
the  bottom — must  folk  quarrel,  if  they  love  not  each 
other  from  the  bottom  ? 

And  that  I  am  fond  of  thee,  and  often  too  fond, — 
that  thou  knowest.  And  the  reason  is  that  I  am  jealous 
of  thy  wisdom.  Alas,  this  mad  old  fool,  wisdom  ! 

If  one  day  thy  wisdom  should  run  away  from 
thee,  alas  !  my  love  also  would  then  quickly  run  away 
from  thee.' 

Then  life  looked  thoughtfully  behind  herself  and 
round  herself,  and  said  gently :  '  O  Zarathustra,  thou  art 
not  faithful  enough  unto  me  ! 

Thou  lovest  me  not  so  much  by  far  as  thou  sayest. 
I  know,  thou  thinkest  of  leaving  me  soon. 

There  is  an  old  heavy  humming  bell ;  it  hummeth 
in  the  night  upwards  unto  thy  cave. 


If  thou  hearest  that  clock  at  midnight  strike  the 
hour,  thou  thinkest  of  it  between  one  and  twelve. 

Thou  thinkest,  O  Zarathustra,  I  know  it,  of  soon 
leaving  me  ! ' 

'Yea,'  I  answered  hesitating,  'but  thou  also  knowest — 
And  I  told  her  something  into  her  ear,  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  confused,  yellow,  stupid  tresses  of  her  hair. 

'  Thou  knowest  that,  O  Zarathustra  ?  That  no  one 

And  we  gazed  at  each  other,  and  looked  at  the 
green  meadow  over  which  the  cool  even  was  spread- 
ing, and  wept  together.  Then  life  was  dearer  unto 
me  than  all  my  wisdom  had  ever  been  unto  me." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


"  One  ! 

0  man  !     Lose  not  sight ! 

Two  ! 
What  saith  the  deep  midnight  ? 

Three  ! 

1  lay  in  sleep,  in  sleep  ; 

Four  ! 
From  deep  dream  I  woke  to  light. 



Five  ! 
The  world  is  deep, 

And  deeper  than  ever  day  thought  it  might. 

Seven  ! 
Deep  is  its  woe — 

Eight ! 
And  deeper  still  than  woe — delight. 

Nine  ! 
Saith  woe  :  '  Pass,  go  ! 

Eternity's  sought  by  all  delight — , 

Eleven  ! 
Eternity  deep — by  all  delight  ! ' 

Twelve  ! " 



"  If  I  am  a  fortune-teller  and  full  of  that  foretelling 
spirit  that  wandereth  on  a  high  mountain  ridge  be- 
tween two  seas, — 

That  wandereth  between  what  is  past  and  what  is 
to  come,  as  a  heavy  cloud, — an  enemy  unto  sultry 
low  lands  and  all  that  is  weary  and  can  neither  die 
nor  live — 

Ready  for  the  lightning  in  the  dark  bosom,  and 
for  the  redeeming  beam  of  light,  charged  with  light- 
nings that  say  Yea  !  that  laugh  Yea  ! — ready  for  fore- 
telling lightnings — 

(But  blessed  is  he  who  is  thus  charged  !  And, 
verily,  a  long  time  must  he  hang  as  a  heavy  thunder- 
storm on  the  mountain,  he  who  shall  one  day  kindle 
the  light  of  the  future  !) 

Oh!  how  could  I  fail  to  be  eager  for  eternity, 
and  for  the  marriage  ring  of  rings,  the  ring  of  re- 
currence ? 


Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this 
woman  I  love.  For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity  ! 

For  I  love  thee,   O  Eternity  ! 

If  my  wrath  hath  ever  broken  graves,  removed 
landmarks,  and  rolled  down  into  steep  depths  old 
tables  broken  ; 

If  my  scorn  hath  ever  blown  into  pieces  mouldered 
words,  and  I  have  ever  come  as  a  brush  unto  cross- 
spiders,  and  as  a  roaring  wind  unto  old  dampish  grave- 
chambers  ; 

If  I  have  ever  sat  rejoicing  where  old  Gods  lie 
buried;  if  I  have  ever  sat  blessing  the  world,  loving 
the  world,  beside  the  monuments  of  old  calumniators 
of  the  world  ; 

(For  even  churches  and  graves  of  Gods  I  love, 
when  once  the  sky  gazeth  with  its  pure  eye  through 
their  broken  ceilings.  I  love  to  sit  on  broken  churches, 
like  the  grass  and  the  red  poppy.) 

Oh !  how  could  I  fail  to  be  eager  for  eternity,  and 
for  the  marriage  ring  of  rings,  the  ring  of  recurrence  ? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this 
woman  I  love.  For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity  ! 

For  I  love  thee,   O  Eternity  ! 



If  there  hath  ever  come  unto  me  a  breath  of 
creative  breath,  and  of  that  heavenly  necessity  that 
compelleth  chance  itself  to  dance  star  dances  ; 

If  I  have  ever  laughed  with  the  laughter  of 
creative  lightning,  that  is  followed  by  the  long  thunder 
of  the  deed,  rumbling  though  willingly  ; 

If  I  have  ever  played  at  dice  with  Gods  at  the 
godlike  table  of  earth,  so  that  the  earth  trembled  and 
brake  and  hissed  up  streams  of  fire  ; 

(For  a  godlike  table  is  earth,  and  trembling  from 
creative  new  words  and  dice-casts  of  Gods.) 

Oh  !  how  could  I  fail  to  be  eager  for  eternity,  and 
for  the  marriage  ring  of  rings,  the  ring  of  recurrence  ? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this 
woman  I  love.  For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity  ! 

For  I  love  thee,   O  Eternity  / 


If  I  have  ever  drunk  a  full  draught  from  that 
foaming  spice-mixture-vessel  in  which  all  things  are 
mixed  ; 

If  my  hand  hath  ever  poured  what  -is  remotest 
into  what  is  nighest,  and  fire  into  spirit,  and  lust  into 
woe,  and  wickedest  into  kindest ; 


If  I  myself  am.  a  grain  of  that  redeeming  salt 
that  maketh  all  things  mix  well  in  the  vessel  of  mix- 

(For  there  is  a  salt  that  bringeth  together  what  is 
good  and  what  is  evil ;  and  even  the  wickedest  is 
worthy  of  serving  as  seasoning,  and  as  a  means  for 
the  last  foaming  over.) 

Oh  !  how  could  I  fail  to  be  eager  for  eternity,  and 
for  the  marriage  ring  of  rings,  the  ring  of  recurrence  ? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this 
woman  I  love.  For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity ! 

For  I  love  thee,   O  Eternity  ! 


If  I  am  fond  of  the  sea,  and  of  all  that  is  of  the 
sea's  kin  ;  and  if  I  am  fondest  if  it  contradicteth  me 
angrily  ; 

If  that  seeking  lust  is  within  me,  that  driveth  the 
sails  after  the  undiscovered  ;  if  there  is  a  sailor's  lust 
in  my  lust ; 

If  my  rejoicing  hath  ever  cried  :  '  The  shore  hath 
disappeared !  Now  the  last  chain  hath  fallen  down 
from  me  ! 

The  limitless  roareth  round  me !  Far,  far  away 
shine  unto  me  space  and  time!  Up!  upwards!  old 


Oh!  how  could  I  fail  to  be  eager  for  eternity,  and 
for  the  marriage  ring  of  rings,  the  ring  of  recurrence  ? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this 
woman  I  love.  For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity  ! 

For  I  love  thee,   O  Eternity  ! 

If  my  virtue  is  a  dancer's  virtue,  and  I  have  often 
leaped  with  both  feet  into  golden-emerald  rapture  ; 

If  my  wickedness  is  a  laughing  wickedness,  feeling 
at  home  under  rose-slopes  and  lily-hedges  ; 

(For  in  laughter  there  is  gathered  all  that  is 
wicked,  but  proclaimed  holy  and  free  through  its 
own  bliss.) 

And  if  it  be  mine  Alpha  and  mine  Omega  that  all 
that  is  heavy  should  become  light,  all  that  is  body 
become  a  dancer,  all  that  is  spirit  become  a  bird.  And, 
verily,  that  is  mine  A  and  mine  O  ! — 

Oh  !  how  could  I  fail  to  be  eager  for  eternity,  and 
for  the  marriage  ring  of  rings,  the  ring  of  recurrence  ? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this 
woman  I  love.  For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity  ! 

For  I  love  thee,   O  Eternity  / 



If  I  have  ever  spread  out  above  me  still  skies,  and 
have  ever  flown  into  mine  own  skies  by  mine  own 
wings  ; 

If  I  have  hovered  playfully  in  deep  light-distances 
and  there  hath  come  the  bird-wisdom  of  my  freedom  ; 

(Thus  speaketh  bird-wisdom:  'Behold,  here  is 
no  above,  no  below  !  Throw  thyself  to  and  fro,  out, 
back,  thou  light  one  !  Sing  !  Speak  no  more  ! 

Are  not  all  words  made  for  the  heavy  ?  Lie  not  all 
words  unto  the  light  one  !  Sing  !  Speak  no  more  !  '- 

Oh  !  how  could  I  fail  to  be  eager  for  eternity,  and 
for  the  marriage  ring  of  rings,  the  ring  of  recurrence  ? 

Never  yet  have  I  found  the  woman  by  whom  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  children,  unless  it  be  this 
woman  I  love.  For  I  love  thee,  O  Eternity  ! 

For  I  love  thee,   O  Eternity  !  " 


"Alas  !  where  in  the  "world  have  greater  follies 
happened  than  -with  the  pitiful?  And  -what  in  the  -world 
hath  done  more  harm  than  the  follies  of  the  pitiful? 

Woe  unto  all  loving  ones  who  do  not  possess  an 
elevation  which  is  above  their  pity  ! 

Thus  the  devil  once  said  tinto  me :  'Even  God  hath 
his  own  hell:  that  is  his  love  unto  men.' 

And  recently  I  heard  the  word  said:  'God  is  dead; 
he  hath  died  of  his  pity  for  men,' 

Zarathtistra,    II 
Of  The  Pitiful 


And  again  months  and  years  passed  over  Zara- 
thustra's  soul,  and  he  took  no  notice  of  it.  But  his 
hair  grew  white.  One  day,  when  he  sat  on  a  stone 
before  his  cave  and  silently  gazed  (there  one  looketh 
out  on  the  sea  and  away  over  winding  abysses)  his 
animals  went  thoughtfully  round  him  and  at  last  stood 
in  front  of  him. 

"  O  Zarathustra,"  they  said,  "  dost  thou  peradventure 
look  out  for  thy  happiness  ? "  "  What  is  happiness 
worth  ? "  he  answered.  "  For  a  long  time  I  have  not  ceased 
to  strive  for  my  happiness ;  now  I  strive  for  my  work. " 
"  O  Zarathustra,"  the  animals  said  once  more,  "  Thou 
sayest  so  as  one  who  hath  more  than  enough  of  what 
is  good.  Dost  thou  not  lie  in  a  sky-blue  lake  of 
happiness  ? "  "  Ye  buffoons,"  answered  Zarathustra  smil- 
ing, "  how  well  ye  chose  that  simile  !  But  ye  also 
know  that  my  happiness  is  heavy,  and  is  not  like 
a  liquid  wave  of  water.  It  presseth  me,  and  will  not 
part  from  me,  and  behaveth  like  melted  pitch." 


Then  the  animals  again  went  thoughtfully  round 
him  and  once  more  stood  in  front  of  him.  "  O  Zara- 
thustra,"  they  said,  "we  see,  it  is  for  that  reason  that 
thou  growest  ever  yellower  and  darker,  though  thy 
hair  will  soon  look  white  and  flaxy  ?  Behold,  thou 
sittest  in  thy  pitch  ! "  "  What  say  ye  now,  mine  ani- 
mals?" said  Zarathustra  laughing.  "Verily,  I  reviled 
when  speaking  of  pitch.  What  I  experience  is  ex- 
perienced by  all  fruits  which  grow  ripe.  The  honey 
in  my  veins  thickeneth  my  blood  and  stilleth  my  soul 
also."  "  Thus  it  will  be,  O  Zarathustra !"  answered  the 
animals  and  thronged  round  him.  "But  art  thou  not 
going  up  a  high  mountain  to-day  ?  The  air  is  pure, 
and  this  day  one  seeth  more  of  the  world  than  ever 
before."  "Yea,  mine  animals,"  he  answered,  "ye  guess 
well  and  according  to  my  wishes.  This  day  I  am 
going  up  a  high  mountain.  But  take  care  that  there 
be  honey  at  my  disposal,  yellow,  white,  good,  golden 
comb-honey  as  cool  as  ice.  For  learn,  at  the  top  I 
am  going  to  make  the  honey-offering." 

But  when  Zarathustra  had  reached  the  summit, 
he  sent  home  his  animals  which  had  led  him,  and 
found  that  now  he  was  alone.  Then  he  laughed  from 
the  bottom  of  his  heart,  looked  round  and  spake  thus. 

"  That  I  spake  of  offering  and  of  honey-offerings, 
was  merely  my  stratagem  of  speech,  and,  verily,  a 
useful  stupidity  !  On  this  summit  one  is  allowed  to 


speak  a  little  freer  than  before  hermit-caves  and  an 
hermit's  domestic  animals. 

Why  sacrifice  !  I  waste  what  I  am  given.  A  waster 
with  a  thousand  hands  am  I.  How  could  I  dare  to 
call  that  offering  ! 

And  when  I  asked  for  honey,  I  merely  wanted  to 
have  a  bait  and  sweet  slime  and  phlegm,  for  which 
even  growling  bears  and  strange,  morose,  evil  birds 
smack  their  lips — 

To  have  the  best  bait  that  is  requisite  for  hunts- 
men and  fishers.  For  if  the  world  is  like  a  dark 
forest  of  animals,  and  a  pleasure-ground  of  all  wild 
huntsmen,  it  seemeth  unto  me  to  be  still  more,  and 
preferably,  a  bottomless,  rich  sea — 

A  sea  full  of  many-coloured  fish  and  crabs,  by 
which  even  Gods  might  be  tempted  to  become  fishers 
there  and  throw  out  their  nets.  So  rich  is  the  world 
in  strange  things,  great  and  small ! 

In  particular  the  world  of  men,  the  sea  of  men  ! 
For  that  I  now  throw  out  my  golden  fishing  rod, 
saying  :  '  Open,  O  thou  abyss  of  men  ! 

Open  and  throw  into  my  hands  thy  fish  and  glitter- 
ing crabs  !  With  my  best  bait  this  day  I  bait  the 
strangest  human  fish  ! 

My  happiness  itself  I  throw  out  into  all  distances 
and  remote  places,  between  east,  south,  and  west,  to 
try  whether  on  the  hook  of  my  happiness  many  human 
fish  will  learn  to  pull  and  wriggle. 


Until  they,  biting  on  my  pointed  hidden  hooks, 
are  forced  to  come  up  unto  my  height,  the  most 
many-coloured  abyss-groundlings,  unto  the  most  mali- 
cious one  of  all  catchers  of  human  fish.' 

For  this  I  am  from  the  bottom  and  from  the  be- 
ginning, pulling,  pulling  unto  me,  pulling  up  unto  me, 
bringing  up — a  puller,  breeder  and  governor,  who  not 
in  vain  once  counselled  himself:  '  Become  what  thou  art ! ' 

Thus  men  may  now  come  up  unto  me.  For  I  am 
still  waiting  for  the  signs  indicating  that  it  is  time 
for  my  going  down.  Not  yet  do  I  perish  among  men, 
as  I  must  do. 

For  that  I  wait  here,  artful  and  mocking  on  high 
mountains,  not  impatient,  not  patient;  on  the  contrary, 
one  who  hath  among  other  things  unlearnt  patience, 
because  he  suffereth  no  more. 

For  my  fate  alloweth  me  plenty  of  time.  Did  it 
forget  me  ?  Or  doth  it  sit  behind  a  large  stone  in 
the  shadow  catching  flies  ? 

And,  verily,  I  am  well  disposed  towards  it,  towards 
mine  eternal  fate,  for  that  reason  that  it  doth  not  hunt 
and  press  me,  but  leaveth  me  time  for  fibs  and  tricks ; 
so  that  this  day  I  have  gone  up  this  high  mountain 
to  catch  fish. 

Hath  ever  a  man  caught  fish  on  high  mountains? 
And  though  what  I  seek  and  do  up  here  be  a  folly, 
it  is  better  to  do  this  than  by  waiting  down  there 
to  become  solemn  and  green  and  yellow — 


To  become  by  waiting  a  sprawling  one  who 
panteth  for  wrath,  a  holy  howling  storm  from  the 
mountains,  an  impatient  one  who  shouteth  down  into 
the  valleys  :  '  Listen,  otherwise  I  shall  whip  you  with 
the  scourge  of  God  ! ' 

Not  that  I  waxed  angry  with  such  wrathful  ones. 
As  an  occasion  of  laughter,  they  are  good  enough 
unto  me !  Impatient  they  must  be,  the  big  noise- 
drums,  who  find  language  to-day  or  never  ! 

But  I  and  my  fate,  we  speak  not  unto  To-day. 
Nor  do  we  speak  unto  Never.  For  speaking  we  have 
patience  and  time  and  too-much-time.  For  one  day  it 
must  come  and  will  not  be  allowed  to  pass  by. 

Who  must  come  one  day  and  will  not  be  allowed 
to  pass  by  ?  Our  great  Hazar,  i.  e.,  our  great  far  off 
kingdom  of  man,  the  Zarathustra-kingdom  of  a 
thousand  years. 

How  far  may  that  '  far '  be  ?  What  doth  it  con- 
cern me  ?  But  on  that  account  it  is  no  less  sure  unto 
me.  With  both  feet  I  stand  safely  on  that  ground- 
On  an  eternal  ground,  on  hard  primary  rock,  on 
these  highest,  hardest  primitive  mountains,  unto  which, 
as  unto  a  point  of  separation  for  thunder-clouds,  the  winds 
come  asking  :  Where  ?  and  Whence  ?  and  Whither  ? 

Here  laugh,  laugh,  O  my  bright,  unscathed  wicked- 
ness !  Down  from  high  mountains  throw  thy  glitter- 
ing mocking  laughter  !  Bait  for  me  with  thy  glitter- 
ing the  finest  human  fish  ! 



And  whatever  belongeth  unto  me  in  all  seas,  my 
in-and-for-me  in  all  things — fish  that  out  for  me,  bring 
that  up  unto  me !  For  it  I  wait,  the  most  malicious  of 
all  fish-catchers. 

Out,  out,  my  hook  !  In,  down,  bait  of  my  happi- 
ness !  Drop  thy  sweetest  dew,  honey  of  my  heart ! 
Bite,  my  hook,  into  the  womb  of  all  black  affliction  ! 

Out,  out,  mine  eye  !  Oh,  how  many  seas  round 
about  me,  what  dawning  futures  of  men  !  And  above 
me  what  rose-red  stillness  !  What  cloudless  silence  ! " 


The  following  day  Zarathustra  sat  again  on  his  stone 
before  the  cave,  while  the  animals  strayed  outside  in 
the  world  in  order  to  bring  home  fresh  food,  including 
fresh  honey.  For  the  old  honey  had  been  spent  and 
wasted  unto  the  last  drop  by  Zarathustra.  But  when  he 
thus  sat  there  with  a  stick  in  his  hand,  and  copied 
the  shadow  of  his  figure  on  the  ground,  meditating 
(and,  verily,  not  upon  himself  and  his  shadow),  suddenly 
he  was  terrified  and  gave  a  start.  For  beside  his  shadow 
he  saw  another  shadow.  And  when  he  looked  round 
quickly  and  arose,  behold,  there  the  fortune-teller 
stood  beside  him,  the  same  unto  whom  he  once  had 
given  food  and  drink  at  his  table,  the  announcer  of 
the  great  weariness,  who  taught :  "  Everything  is  equal ; 
nothing  is  worth  while  ;  the  world  is  without  sense  ; 
knowledge  choketh."  But  in  the  meantime  his  face 
had  changed.  And  when  Zarathustra  looked  into  his 
eyes,  his  heart  was  terrified  once  more.  So  many  evil 
prophecies  and  ashen-gray  lightnings  passed  over  that 



The  fortune-teller,  who  had  noticed  what  was  going 
on  in  Zarathustra's  soul,  wiped  his  face  with  his  hand, 
as  if  he  were  going  to  wipe  it  out.  The  same  did 
Zarathustra.  And  when  both  of  them  had  in  silence 
recovered  and  reassured  themselves,  they  shook  hands 
to  show  that  they  wished  to  recognise  each  other. 

"  Welcome  unto  me,"  said  Zarathustra,  "  thou  prophet 
of  the  great  weariness !  Not  in  vain  shalt  thou  have 
once  been  the  friend  of  my  table  and  house.  Eat 
and  drink  in  the  same  way  this  day  with  me  and  for- 
give a  happy  old  man  for  sitting  down  to  dinner  with 
thee ! "  "A  happy  old  man  ?  "  answered  the  fortune-teller, 
shaking  his  head.  "  Whatever  thou  art  or  desirest  to  be, 
O  Zarathustra,  that  thou  hast  been  up  here  the  largest 
part  of  thy  sojourn.  Thy  boat  shall  in  a  little  while 
sit  no  longer  on  dry  ground  !"  "Do  I  sit  on  the  dry 
ground  ? "  asked  Zarathustra,  laughing.  "  The  waves 
round  thy  hill,"  answered  the  fortune-teller,  "rise  and 
rise,  the  waves  of  great  need  and  affliction.  They  will 
soon  raise  thy  boat  like  others  and  carry  thee  off."  After 
that  Zarathustra  was  silent  and  wondered.  "Dost  thou 
not  hear  anything  yet  ? "  the  fortune-teller  continued. 
"Is  there  not  a  rustling  and  roaring  up  from  the 
depth  ? "  Zarathustra  was  silent  again  and  hearkened. 
Then  he  heard  a  long,  long  cry,  which  the  abysses 
threw  and  passed  on  from  the  one  unto  the  other. 
For  none  had  any  desire  to  keep  it ;  so  horrid  it 


"Thou  evil  announcer,"  at  last  Zarathustra  said, 
"that  is  a  cry  for  help,  and  the  cry  of  a  man.  It  may 
well  spring  from  a  black  sea.  But  what  doth  human 
danger  concern  me  !  My  last  sin,  the  sin  that  was 
kept  for  me, — peradventure  thou  knowest  what  is  its 
name  ?  " 

"Pity!"  answered  the  fortune-teller  with  over- 
flowing heart  and  lifted  both  his  hands.  "  O  Zarathustra, 
I  have  come  to  seduce  thee  unto  thy  last  sin  !" 

And  scarce  had  these  words  been  uttered,  when 
the  cry  sounded  again,  and  longer  and  more  anxious 
than  before,  and  also  much  nigher.  "  Hearest  thou  ? 
Hearest  thou,  O  Zarathustra  ?  "  the  fortune-teller  cried. 
"  The  cry  is  meant  to  be  heard  by  thee ;  thee  it  calleth. 
Come,  come,  come !  It  is  time,  it  is  high  time  ! " 

Then  Zarathustra  was  silent  and  confused  and 
agitated.  At  last  he  asked  like  one  hesitating  :  "And 
who  is  it  who  there  calleth  me  ? " 

"Thou  knowest  well,"  answered  the  fortune-teller 
hotly.  "Why  dost  thou  hide  thyself?  The  higher 
man  it  is  who  calleth  for  thee  ! " 

"  The  higher  man  ? "  shouted  Zarathustra,  horror- 
stricken.  "What  wanteth  he?  What  wanteth  he?  The 
higher  man  !  What  wanteth  he  here  ? "  And  sweat 
brake  out  over  his  skin. 

But  the  fortune-teller  answered  not  the  anxious 
cries  uttered  by  Zarathustra,  but  hearkened  and 
hearkened  towards  the  depth.  But  when  all  was  still 


there  for  a  long  while,  he  turned  his  look  back  and 
saw  Zarathustra  stand  trembling. 

"O  Zarathustra,"  he  began  with  a  sad  voice,  "thou 
dost  not  stand  there  like  one  made  giddy  by  his 
happiness.  Thou  wilt  have  to  dance  in  order  not  to 
fall  down  ! 

But  even  if  thou  wert  to  dance  in  my  presence 
and  leap  all  thy  side-leaps,  nobody  shall  be  allowed 
to  say  :  '  Behold,  here  danceth  the  last  gay  man  ! ' 

In  vain  would  he  come  unto  this  height  who  would 
seek  such  a  one  here.  True,  he  would  find  caves  and 
back  caves,  hiding-places  for  hidden  ones,  but  not 
mines  of  happiness  and  treasure-chambers  and  new 
golden  veins  of  happiness. 

Happiness — how  could  one  find  happiness  with 
such  interred  ones  and  hermits  ?  Must  I  yet  seek  the 
last  happiness  on  blissful  islands,  and  far  away  among 
forgotten  seas  ? 

But  everything  is  equal ;  nothing  is  worth  while  ; 
no  seeking  is  any  good ;  there  are  no  longer  any 
blissful  islands  besides  ! " 

Thus  sighed  tHe  fortune-teller ;  but  with  his  last 
sigh  Zarathustra  became  once  more  bright  and  as- 
sured, like  one  who  cometh  unto  the  light  out  of  a 
deep  gulf.  "  Nay !  Nay  !  Three  times  Nay  ! "  he  cried 
with  a  strong  voice,  and  stroked  his  beard.  "  I  know 


better  .'  There  are  still  blissful  islands  !  Speak  not  of 
such  things,  thou  sighing  sack  of  sadness  ! 

Cease  to  splash  about  that,  thou  rain-cloud  in  the 
forenoon  !  Stand  I  not  already  here,  wet  with  thine 
affliction,  and  moistened  like  a  dog  ? 

Now  I  shake  myself  and  run  away  from  thee,  in 
order  to  become  dry  again.  At  that  thou  must  not 
be  astonished !  Do  I  seem  to  be  discourteous  unto 
thee  ?  But  here  is  my  court. 

And  concerning  thy  higher  man — up  !  I  shall  seek 
him  quickly  in  those  forests.  From  them  came  his 
cry.  Perhaps  an  evil  beast  harrasseth  him. 

He  is  in  my  sphere.  There  he  shall  not  meet  with 
any  accident !  And,  verily,  there  are  many  evil  ani- 
mals with  me." 

With  these  words  Zarathustra  turned  himself  unto 
his  journey.  Then  the  fortune-teller  said :  "  O  Zara- 
thustra, thou  art  a  rogue  ! 

I  know  it  well :  thou  wouldst  fain  be  rid  of  me  ! 
Rather  than  tarry  with  me,  thou  runnest  into  the 
forests  and  liest  in  wait  for  evil  animals  ! 

But  of  what  good  is  it  for  thee  ?  In  the  evening 
thou  wilt  have  me  back  ;  in  thine  own  cave  shall  I  sit, 
patient  and  heavy  like  a  block,  and  wait  for  thee  ! " 

"  Thus  shall  it  be  ! "  Zarathustra  cried  back  in 
departing,  "and  what  is  my  property  in  my  cave,  is 
thy  property  also,  my  friend  and  guest ! 

But  if  thou  shouldst  find  there  any  honey,  up  !  Lick 


it  up,  thou  growling  bear,  and  sweeten  thy  soul !  For 
in  the  evening  we  two  will  be  gay  together — 

Gay  and  happy,  because  this  day  hath  come  unto 
an  end  !  And  thou  thyself  shalt  dance  unto  my  songs, 
as  my  dancing  bear. 

Thou  dost  not  believe  it  ?  Thou  shakest  thy  head  ? 
Up  !  Up  !  Old  bear,  I  also  am  a  fortune-teller." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


Zarathustra  had  not  yet  been  an  hour  on  his  way 
through  his  mountains  and  forests,  when  all  at  once  he 
saw  a  strange  procession.  Even  on  the  way  by  which 
he  was  going  down,  there  came  two  kings,  adorned 
with  crowns  and  purple  belts,  and  many-coloured,  like 
flamingo-birds.  The  kings  drove  in  front  of  them  an  ass 
with  a  burden.  "What  do  these  kings  want  in  my 
kingdom  ? "  Zarathustra  in  astonishment  said  unto  his 
heart,  and  hid  quickly  behind  a  bush.  But  when  the 
kings  came  close  unto  him,  he  said  with  a  half  voice, 
like  one  who  speaketh  only  unto  himself :  "  Strange  ! 
Strange  !  How  accordeth  this  ?  Two  kings  I  see,  and 
one  ass  only  !  " 

Then  the  two  kings  stopped,  smiled,  gazed  in  the 
direction  of  the  spot  whence  the  voice  came,  and  then 
looked  into  each  other's  faces.  "  Such  things  are  thought 
among  us  also,  it  is  true,"  said  the  king  on  the  right 
side,  "but  one  doth  not  say  them." 


But  the  king  on  the  left  side  shrugging  his  shoulders 
said  :  "He  will  probably  be  a  goat-herd.  Or  a  hermit 
who  hath  lived  too  long  among  rocks  and  trees.  For 
no  society  at  all  spoileth  good  manners  also." 

"  Good  manners  ? "  the  other  king  replied  angrily 
and  bitterly.  "  Out  of  whose  way  have  we  gone  ?  Is 
it  not  '  good  manners,'  our  '  good  society  ? ' 

Verily,  rather  would  I  dwell  among  hermits  and 
goat-herds  than  with  our  mob  gilded  over,  false,  with 
painted  cheeks,  although  it  call  itself  'good  society  '- 

Although  it  call  itself  '  nobility.'  But  there  all  is 
false  and  rotten,  above  all  the  blood,  owing  unto  old 
evil  diseases  and  still  worse  physicians. 

He  who  is  best  for  me  and  dearest  unto  me  to-day 
is  a  healthy  peasant,  coarse,  artful,  hard-necked,  endur- 
ing. That  is  to-day  the  noblest  tribe. 

To-day  the  peasant  is  the  best.  And  the  peasant's 
tribe  should  dominate  !  But  it  is  the  kingdom  of  the 
mob  ;  I  no  longer  allow  any  imposition.  But  mob- 
that  meaneth  mish-mash. 

Mob-like  mish-mash  therein  is  all  mixed  up  with 
all,  saint  and  rogue  and  gentleman  and  Jew  and 
every  animal  from  Noah's  ark. 

Good  manners  !  With  us,  all  is  false  and  rotten. 
Nobody  knoweth  any  longer  how  to  revere.  It  is  from 
this  exactly  that  we  seek  to  escape.  They  are  over- 
sweet,  forward  dogs  ;  they  gild  palm-leaves. 

I  choke  with   loathing   that    even  we   kings    have 


become  false,  dressed  up  and  disguised  with  the  old 
withered  pomp  of  our  grandfathers,  medals  for  the 
most  stupid  and  the  most  cunning,  and  whoever  to-day 
chaffereth  with  power  ! 

We  are  not  the  first ;  and  yet  have  to  represent 
them.  Of  this  cheatery  at  last  we  have  grown  weary 
and  disgusted. 

We  have  gone  out  of  the  way  of  the  rabble,  those 
brawlers  and  blue-bottles  of  writing,  the  stench  of  shop- 
keepers, the  wriggling  of  ambition,  the  evil  breath. 
Ugh  !  to  live  among  the  rabble  ! 

Ugh !  to  represent  the  first  among  the  rabble ! 
Oh!  loathing!  loathing!  loathing!  What  do  we  kings 
matter  any  longer  ?  " 

"Thine  old  disease  attacketh  thee,"  said  here  the 
king  on  the  left.  "Loathing  attacketh  thee,  my  poor 
brother.  But  thou  knowest  well,  somebody  hearkeneth 
unto  us." 

Zarathustra,  whose  ears  and  eyes  had  opened  with 
surprise  at  these  speeches,  rose  from  his  hiding-place, 
stepped  towards  the  kings,  and  began  thus : 

"  He  who  hearkeneth  unto  you,  he  who  willingly 
hearkeneth  unto  you,  ye  kings,  is  called  Zarathustra. 

I  am  Zarathustra  who  once  said  :  '  What  do  kings 
any  longer  matter  ? '  Forgive  me,  I  was  happy  when 
ye  said  unto  each  other  :  '  What  do  we  kings  matter  ? ' 

But  here  is  my  kingdom  and  my  dominion.  I 
wonder  what  ye  seek  in  my  kingdom  ?  Perhaps  ye 


have  found  on  the-  way  what  /  seek,  namely  the 
higher  man." 

When  the  kings  heard  this,  they  beat  their  breast  and 
said  as  with  one  mouth :  "  We  have  been  recognised  ! 

With  the  sword  of  this  word  thou  severedst  the 
thickest  darkness  of  our  hearts.  Thou  hast  discovered 
our  need.  For,  behold  !  we  are  on  the  way,  in  order 
to  find  the  higher  man — 

The  man  who  is  higher  than  we  are,  although 
we  be  kings.  Unto  him  we  lead  this  ass.  For  the 
highest  man  shall  also  be  the  highest  lord  on  earth. 

There  is  no  harder  lot  in  all  human  fate,  than 
when  the  powerful  of  the  earth  are  not  at  the  same 
time  the  first  men.  There  everything  becometh  false 
and  warped  and  monstrous. 

And  when,  worst  of  all,  they  are  the  last  men, 
and  more  beast  than  man — there  the  price  of  the  mob 
riseth  and  riseth,  and  at  last  the  virtue  of  the  mob 
saith  :  '  Behold,  I  alone  am  virtue  ! ' ' 

"  What  did  I  hear  just  now  ?  "  answered  Zarathustra. 
"  What  wisdom  with  kings !  I  am  ravished,  and,  verily, 
this  very  moment  I  feel  the  desire  to  make  a  stanza. 

Even  if  it  should  become  a  stanza  that  is  not  good 
for  everybody's  ears.  Long  ago  I  have  unlearnt  to 
pay  heed  unto  long  ears.  Up  !  Up  ! " 

(Here  it  came  to  pass  that  the  ass  also  could  make 
a  remark.  And  it  said  distinctly  and  maliciously  Hee- 
haw !) 


"  Once — in  the  year  of  the  Lord  one,  I  opine — 
The  Sybil  spake  thus,  she  was  drunk,  without  wine: 
'  Alas  !  Now  ah1  goeth  wrong  on  its  way  ! 
Ne'er  so  deep  sank  the  world  !  Decay  !  Decay  ! 
Rome  grew  a  whore,  a  brothel  she  grew, 
Rome's  Caesar  a  beast,  and  God  —a  Jew  ! '  ' 

At  these  lines  of  Zarathustra  the  kings  rejoiced. 
But  the  king  on  the  right  said  :  "  O  Zarathustra,  how 
well  it  was  that  we  went  out  to  see  thee  ! 

For  thine  enemies  showed  us  thy  picture  in  their 
looking  glass.  There  thou  lookedst  with  a  devil's 
grimace  and  scornful  laughter,  so  that  we  were  afraid 
of  thee. 

But  of  what  good  was  it !  Ever  again  thou  stungest 
us  in  ear  and  heart  with  thy  sayings.  Then  at  last 
we  said  :  '  What  matter  how  he  may  look  ! ' 

We  must  hear  him,  him  who  teacheth :  '  Ye  shall 
love  peace  as  a  means  for  new  wars,  and  a  short 
peace  better  than  a  long ! ' 

Nobody  hath  ever  said  such  warlike  words  :  'What 
is  good  ?  To  be  brave  is  good  !  It  is  the  good  war 
that  halloweth  every  cause.' 

O  Zarathustra,  hearing  such  words,  our  fathers' 
blood  moved  in  our  body.  That  was  like  the  speech 
of  spring  unto  old  wine-barrels. 


When  the  swords  crossed  each  other  like  serpents 
with  red  spots,  our  fathers  grew  fond  of  life.  The  sun 
of  all  peace  seemed  unto  them  to  be  weak  and  luke- 
warm, and  long  peace  caused  them  shame. 

How  they  sighed,  our  fathers,  when  seeing  at  the 
walls  swords  glittering,  but  dry  as  dry  !  Like  unto 
them  they  thirsted  for  war.  For  a  sword  desireth  to 
drink  blood  and  sparkleth  with  desire." 

When  thus  the  kings  spake  eagerly  and  gos- 
sipped  of  their  fathers'  happiness,  Zarathustra  was 
seized  by  no  small  desire  to  mock  at  their  eagerness. 
For  apparently  very  peaceful  kings  they  were  whom 
he  saw  before  him,  kings  with  old  and  refined  faces. 
But  he  mastered  himself.  "  Up ! "  he  said, "  in  that  direction 
leadeth  the  way.  There  lieth  the  cave  of  Zarathustra. 
And  this  day  shall  have  a  long  evening  !  But  now 
a  cry  for  help  calleth  me  in  haste  away  from  you. 

It  will  honour  my  cave  if  kings  come  to  sit  and 
wait  in  it.  But,  it  is  true,  ye  will  have  to  wait  for 

Heed  not !  What  matter  !  Where  doth  one  to- 
day learn  better  to  wait  than  at  courts  ?  And  the 
whole  virtue  of  kings,  the  whole  virtue  that  is  left 
unto  them,  is  it  not  called  to-day — to  be  able  to 
wait  ?  " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


And  deliberately  Zarathustra  went  further  and 
deeper  through  forests  and  past  moory  vales.  But,  as 
cometh  to  pass  with  all  who  meditate  on  hard 
things,  he  stepped  on  a  man  unawares.  And,  behold, 
all  at  once  a  cry  of  pain  and  two  curses  and  twenty 
evil  abusive  words  splashed  into  his  face,  so  that,  in 
his  terror,  he  lifted  his  stick  and  beat  him  on  whom 
he  had  trodden.  But  immediately  afterwards  he  re- 
covered his  senses,  his  heart  laughing  at  the  folly  just 
done  by  him. 

"  Forgive,"  said  he  unto  the  trodden  one,  who  had 
got  up  angrily  and  sat  down  again.  "Forgive,  and, 
above  all,  listen  unto  a  parable. 

As  a  wanderer  who  dreameth  of  distant  things  on 
a  lonely  road,  striketh  unawares  against  a  sleeping  dog, 
a  dog  which  is  lying  in  the  sun  ; 

As  both  of  these,  terrified  unto  death,  start  and 
snap  at  each  other,  like  unto  mortal  enemies  :  thus  it 
came  to  pass  unto  us. 

And  yet !   And   yet !    How  little  was   lacking  for 


them  to  fondle  each  other,  that   dog   and  that  lonely 
one  !     For  both  are  lonely  ! " 

"  Whoever  thou  mayest  be,"  said  the  trodden  one 
still  angrily,  "  thou  tramplest  upon  me,  with  thy  parable 
as  well  as  with  thy  foot ! 

Behold,  am  I  a  dog  ?"  And  thereupon  the  sitting 
one  got  up  and  drew  his  naked  arm  out  of  the 
swamp.  For  previously  he  had  lain  on  the  ground, 
stretched  out,  hidden  and  not  recognisable  like  such 
as  lie  in  wait  for  swamp  deer. 

"  But  what  dost  thou  ? "  cried  Zarathustra  terrified. 
For  he  saw  that  much  blood  streamed  over  the  naked 
arm.  "  What  hath  happened  unto  thee  ?  Did  an  evil 
beast  bite  thee,  thou  unhappy  one  ? " 

The  bleeding  one  laughed,  still  in  anger.  "  What 
doth  that  concern  thee  ? "  he  said  and  was  about  to 
go  his  wTay.  "Here  am  I  at  home,  and  in  mine  own 
province.  Ask  me  whoever  liketh,  but  I  shall  scarcely 
answer  a  boor." 

"Thou  art  mistaken,"  said  Zarathustra  with  pity,  and 
held  him  tight.  "Thou  art  mistaken.  Here  thou  art 
not  at  home,  but  in  my  kingdom,  and  there  nobody 
shall  suffer  any  damage. 

But  heed  not,  call  me  as  thou  choosest,  I  am  he 
that  I  must  be.  But  I  call  myself  Zarathustra. 

Up  !  Up  there  goeth  the  way  unto  Zarathustra's 
cave.  It  is  not  far.  Wilt  thou  not  in  my  home  take 
care  of  thy  wounds  ? 

THE  LEECH  369 

Thou  hast  been  ill  off,  thou  unhappy  one,  in  this  life. 
First  a  beast  bit  thee,  and  then  a  man  trod  on  thee." 

But  when  the  trodden  one  heard  the  name  of 
Zarathustra,  he  changed.  "  Oh  !  what  happeneth  unto 
me  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Who  else  is  of  any  account  unto 
me  in  this  life  but  this  one  man,  Zarathustra,  and  that 
one  beast  which  liveth  on  blood,  the  leech  ? 

For  the  sake  of  the  leech  I  lay  here  at  this  swamp, 
like  a  fisherman ;  and  mine  arm  thrown  out  had  al- 
ready been  bitten  ten  times.  A  still  more  beautiful 
leech  biteth  me  for  my  blood,  Zarathustra  himself! 

Oh,  happiness  !  Oh,  wonder  !  Praised  be  this  day 
which  allured  me  into  this  swamp  !  Praised  be  the 
best  live  cupping-glass  alive  this  day!  Praised  be  the 
great  leech  of  conscience,  Zarathustra  ! " 

Thus  spake  the  trodden  one ;  and  Zarathustra 
rejoiced  at  his  words  and  their  fine  respectful  style. 
"Who  art  thou?"  he  asked,  and  shook  his  hand.  "Be- 
tween us  many  things  remain  to  be  cleared  up  and 
brightened.  But  already,  methinketh,  it  becometh 
pure,  broad  daylight." 

"I  am  the  conscientious  one  of  the  spirit,"  answered 
he  who  had  been  asked,  "  and  in  matters  of  the  spirit, 
scarcely  any  one  taketh  things  more  severely,  more 
narrowly,  and  harder  than  I,  except  thee  from  whom 
I  learned  it,  Zarathustra  himself. 

Rather  know  nothing  than  know  many  things  by 
halves  !  Rather  be  a  fool  on  one's  own  account  than 



a  wise  man  on  other  folk's  approbation  !  I  examine 
things  down  unto  the  ground. 

What  matter  whether  it  be  great  or  small  ?  Whether 
it  be  called  swamp  or  sky  ?  A  hand's  breadth  of 
ground  is  enough  for  me  ;  if  it  only  be  actually  a 
ground  and  bottom  ! 

A  hand's  breadth  of  ground — thereon  one  can 
stand.  In  the  proper  conscientiousness  of  knowledge 
there  is  nothing  great  and  nothing  small." 

"  Thus  thou  art  perhaps  the  perceiver  of  the  leech  ?  " 
asked  Zarathustra  ;  "  and  thou  followest  the  leech  unto 
its  last  ground,  thou  conscientious  one  ? " 

"  O  Zarathustra,"  answered  he  who  had  been  trodden 
on,  "  that  would  be  something  immense !  How  could  I 
dare  to  undertake  that  ? 

The  thing  whose  master  and  knower  I  am — that 
is  the  leech's  brain.  That  is  my  world  ! 

And  it  is  a  world  as  others  are  !  But  forgive  my 
pride  finding  expression  here.  For  here  I  have  not  my 
like.  Therefore  I  said  :  '  Here  am  I  at  home.' 

How  long  have  I  followed  out  that  one  thing,  the 
leech's  brain,  that  the  slippery  truth  might  no  more 
escape  me  here  !  Here  is  my  kingdom  ! 

To  get  at  that,  I  have  thrown  away  everything 
else  ;  for  the  sake  of  it,  everything  else  hath  become 
indifferent  unto  me ;  and  close  unto  my  knowledge 
dwelleth  my  dense  ignorance. 

The   conscience   of  my  spirit  demandeth  from  me 

THE  LEECH  371 

that  I  should  know  one  thing  and  not  know  every- 
thing else  that  is.  I  loathe  all  the  half  ones  of  the 
spirit,  all  the  vaporous,  hovering,  enthusiastic. 

Where  mine  honesty  ceaseth,  I  am  blind  and  will 
be  blind.  But  where  I  intend  to  know,  I  will  also  be 
honest,  i.  e.,  hard,  severe,  narrow,  cruel,  inexorable. 

Because  thou  once  saidst,  O  Zarathustra :  '  Spirit 
is  the  life  that  cutteth  itself  into  life,'  I  was  led  and 
seduced  unto  thy  doctrine.  And,  verily,  with  mine 
own  blood  have  I  increased  mine  own  knowledge  ! " 

"As  appearance  teacheth,"  Zarathustra  interrupted 
him.  For  the  blood  was  still  streaming  down  from 
the  naked  arm  of  the  conscientious  one.  For  ten 
leeches  had  bit  themselves  into  it. 

"  O  thou  strange  fellow,  how  much  am  I  taught 
by  this  appearance,  i.  e.,  by  thyself!  And  perhaps  I 
might  not  dare  to  pour  all  that  into  thy  strict  ears  ! 

Up  !  let  us  part !  But  I  should  like  to  find  thee 
again.  Up  there  leadeth  the  way  unto  my  cave.  This 
night  thou  shalt  be  my  dear  guest  there  ! 

Fain  would  I  also  make  amends  on  thy  body,  for 
Zarathustra  treading  on  thee  with  his  feet.  On  that  I 
meditate.  But  now  a  cry  for  help  calleth  me  in  haste 
away  from  thee." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 



But  when  Zarathustra  had  gone  round  a  rock  he 
saw  not  far  below  him  on  the  same  road  as  himself 
a  man  who  threw  his  limbs  about  like  a  madman,  and 
at  last  fell  down  to  the  ground  upon  his  stomach. 
"  Halt  ! "  then  said  Zarathustra  unto  his  heart.  "  The 
man  there  seemeth  to  be  the  higher  man ;  from  him 
came  that  horrid  cry  for  help.  I  will  see  whether  I 
can  be  of  any  help."  But  when  he  came  unto  the 
place  where  the  man  lay  on  the  ground,  he  found  a 
trembling  old  man  with  his  eyes  fixed.  And  although 
Zarathustra  took  all  the  pains  he  could  to  get  him  up 
and  put  him  on  his  legs  again,  it  was  in  vain.  The 
unhappy  one  seemed  not  to  notice  that  anybody  was 
by  his  side.  On  the  contrary,  he  continually  looked 
round  with  moving  gestures,  like  one  forsaken  and 
left  solitary  by  all  the  world.  But  at  last,  with  much 
trembling,  twitching,  and  curling  himself  up,  he  began 
thus  to  lament : 


"  Who  warmeth  me,  who  loveth  me  still  ? 
Give  hot  hands  ! 
Give  heart's  coal-pans  ! 
Stretched  out,  shivering, 
Like  one  half  dead  whose  feet  are  warmed, 
Shaken,  alas  !  by  unknown  fevers, 
Trembling    from    the  icy,    pointed  arrows    of 

Hunted,  thought,  by  thee  ! 
Unutterable  !  Veiled  !  Horrid  one  ! 

Thou  huntsman  behind  the  clouds  ! 
Struck  to  the  ground  by  thee, 
Thou   mocking  eye  that  gazeth  at  me  from 

the  dark  ! 
Thus  I  lie, 

Bend,  writhe,  tortured 
By  all  eternal  tortures, 


By  thee,  cruellest  of  huntsmen, 
Thou  unknown   God  .  .  . 

Smite  harder  ! 

Smite  once  more  ! 

Sting,  break  to  pieces  this  heart ! 

What  meaneth  this  torturing 

With  its  blunt-toothed  arrows  ? 

Why  gazest  thou  again, 

Never  weary  of  human  pain, 


With  the  malicious  lightening  eyes  of  a  God  ? 

Thou  wilt  not  kill, 

Only  torture,  torture  ? 

Wherefore  torture  me, 

Thou  malicious,  unknown  God  ? 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Thou  creepest  nigh 

In  such  a  midnight  ? 

What  wilt  thou  ? 

Speak  ! 

Thou  crushest  me,  thou  pressest  me, 

Ha  !  already  much  too  nigh  ! 

Thou  hearest  me  breathe, 

Thou  hearkenest  unto  my  heart, 

Thou  jealous  one  ! 

Jealous  of  what  ? 
Away,  away  ! 
The  ladder  for  what  ? 
Wilt  thou  step  in, 
Step  into  my  heart, 
Step  into  the  loneliest 
Of  my  thoughts  ? 

Shameless  one  !  Unknown  one  !  Thief ! 
What  wilt  thou  steal  for  thyself? 
What  wilt  thou  hearken  for  thyself? 
What  wilt  thou  get  by  torturing, 
Thou  torturer  ! 


Thou  hangman's  God  ! 

Or  shall  I  roll  myself  before  thee 

Like  the  dog, 

Wag  love  unto  thee  with  the  tail, 

Giving  myself,  in  eager  frenzy  ? 

In  vain  ! 

Sting  on  ! 

Cruellest  of  stings ! 

Not  a  dog — thy  game  merely  am  I, 

Cruellest  of  huntsmen  ! 

Thy  proudest  prisoner, 

Thou  robber  behind  the  clouds  .  .  . 

Speak  at  last ! 

Thou  who  art  veiled  in  lightnings !  Unknown ! 

Speak  ! 
What  wilt  thou,  waylayer,  from  me  f 


A  ransom  ?     . 
What  wilt  thou  ransom  ? 
Demand  much  !  Thus  my  pride  counselleth  ! 
And  be  brief!   Thus  mine  other    pride    coun- 
selleth ! 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Myself—  wilt  thou  ?  myself  ? 

Myself  ?  the  whole  of  me  ? 


Ha  !  Ha  ! 

And  thou  torturest  me,  fool  that  thou  art ! 

Torturest  my  pride  to  pieces  ? 

Give  love  unto  me  !    Who  still  warmeth  me  ? 

Who  still  loveth  me  ? 
Give  hot  hands, 
Give  heart's  coal-pans  ! 
Give  me,  the  loneliest, 
Who  by  ice,  alas  !  by  sevenfold  ice, 
Am  taught  to  thirst  for  enemies, 
For  enemies  themselves, 
Give,  yea,  give  thyself  up, 
Cruellest  enemy, 
Unto  me  ! 

Away  ! 

There  he  fled  himself, 
My  sole  companion, 
My  great  enemy, 
Mine  unknown  one, 
My  hangman's  God  !  .  .  . 


Come  back  ! 
With  all  thy  tortures  ! 
Oh,  come  back 

Unto  the  last  of  all  lonely  ones  ! 
All  my  tears  run 


Their  course  unto  thee  ! 
And  the  last  flame  of  my  heart— 
Up  it  gloweth  unto  thee  ! 
Oh,  come  back, 

Mine  unknown  God,  my  pain  ! 
My  last  happiness  !...." 

But  then  Zarathustra  could  no  longer  restrain 
himself,  but  took  his  stick  and,  with  all  his  might, 
struck  the  wailing  one.  "  Stop,"  he  cried  unto  him, 
with  wrathful  laughter.  "  Stop,  thou  actor !  Thou 
false  coiner  !  Thou  liar  from  the  bottom  !  I  know 
thee  well ! 

I  shall  make  thy  legs  hot,  thou  evil  wizard  !  I 
understand  well  how  to  make  it  hot  for  such  as  thou 

"  Cease,"  said  the  old  man  and  leaped  from  the 
ground,  "  strike  no  more,  O  Zarathustra !  I  did  it  merely 
for  fun  ! 

Such  things  are  part  of  mine  art.  Thyself  I  in- 
tended to  try,  when  I  gave  thee  this  sample  !  And, 
verily,  thou  hast  well  found  me  out ! 

But  even  thou  hast  given  me  no  small  sample 
of  thyself.  Thou  art  hard,  thou  wise  Zarathustra ! 
Hard  thou  strikest  with  thy  '  truths.'  Thy  stick  forceth 
this  truth  to  come  out  of  me  ! " 


"Flatter  not,"  said  Zarathustra,  still  excited  and 
looking  sullen,  "thou  actor  from  the  bottom  !  Thou 
art  false.  Why  speakest  thou  of  truth  ? 

Thou  peacock  of  peacocks,  thou  sea  of  vanity, 
•what  didst  thou  play  before  me,  thou  evil  wizard?  In 
whom  was  it  purposed  to  make  me  believe,  when  thou 
wailedst  in  such  a  shape  ?  " 

"  The  penitent  of  spirit"  said  the  old  man.  "He  it 
was  whom  I  played  ;  (thou  didst  once  thyself  invent 
this  word) — 

The  poet  and  wizard  who  at  last  turneth  his  spirit 
against  himself,  the  changed  one  who  freezeth  to  death 
because  of  his  evil  knowledge  and  his  evil  conscience. 

And  now  confess  it  !  It  took  thee  a  long  time,  O 
Zarathustra,  to  find  out  mine  art  and  lie  !  Thou  be- 
lievedst  in  my  need,  when  thou  heldest  my  head  with 
both  hands. 

I  heard  thee  wail :  '  They  have  loved  him  too 
little,  they  have  loved  him  too  little  ! '  In  deceiving 
thee  so  far,  my  wickedness  rejoiced  within  me." 

"  Probably  thou  hast  deceived  more  acute  ones  than 
I  am,"  said  Zarathustra  sternly.  "I  am  not  on  the 
watch  for  deceivers,  I  must  be  without  prudence.  Thus 
my  lot  willeth. 

But  thou  must  deceive.  So  far  I  know  thee.  Thou 
must  always  have  two,  three,  four  or  five  meanings  ! 
Even  what  thou  hast  now  confessed,  was  not  nearly 
true  enough  or  false  enough  for  me  ! 


Thou  evil  false  coiner,  how  couldst  thou  do  other- 
wise !  The  very  cheeks  of  thy  disease  thou  wouldst 
paint,  when  thou  wouldst  show  thyself  naked  unto 
thy  physician. 

Thus  thou  hast  now  in  my  presence  painted  the 
cheeks  of  thy  lie,  when  thou  saidst :  '  I  did  it  merely 
for  fun ! '  There  was  also  some  seriousness  in  it. 
Thou  art  somewhat  of  a  penitent  of  spirit ! 

Indeed  I  have  found  thee  out.  Thou  hast  become 
the  enchanter  of  all ;  but  for  use  against  thyself  thou 
hast  no  lie  and  no  artfulness  left.  Thou  art  disenchant- 
ed in  thine  own  eyes  ! 

Thou  hast  reaped  loathing  as  thine  one  truth.  No 
word  in  thee  is  genuine  any  more.  But  thy  mouth 
is  i.  e.,  the  loathing  is  that  cleaveth  unto  thy  mouth." 

"  Who  art  thou  ! "  then  cried  the  old  wizard  with  a 
defiant  voice.  "Who  dareth  to  speak  thus  unto  me,  the 
greatest  one,  who  liveth  this  day  ? "  And  a  green 
lightning  shot  from  his  eye  at  Zarathustra.  But  im- 
mediately thereafter  he  changed  and  said  sadly  : 

"  O  Zarathustra,  I  am  weary  of  it,  I  loathe  mine 
arts.  I  am  not  great.  Why  do  I  dissemble?  But  thou 
knowest  well :  I  sought  for  greatness  ! 

I  desired  to  seem  a  great  man  and  persuaded 
many.  But  that  lie  went  beyond  my  power.  On  it  I 
go  to  pieces. 

O  Zarathustra,  everything  in  me  is  a  lie.  But  that 
I  go  to  pieces— this  my  going  to  pieces  is  genuine  /" 


"  It  doth  honour  unto  thee,"  said  Zarathustra  looking 
down  sullenly  aside.  "It  doth  thee  honour  that  thou 
soughtest  for  greatness,  but  it  also  betrayeth  thee. 
Thou  art  not  great. 

Thou  bad  old  wizard,  that  is  the  best  and  most 
honest  thing  I  honour  in  thee,  that  thou  becamest 
weary  of  thyself  and  hast  pronounced  it :  'I  am  not 

Therein  I  honour  thee  as  a  penitent  of  spirit.  And 
if  thou  wert  genuine  only  for  a  breath  and  a  twinkle, 
for  this  one  moment  thou  wert  so. 

But  say,  what  seekest  thou  here  in  my  forests  and 
rocks  ?  And  if  thou  hast  put  thyself  in  my  way,  in 
what  didst  thou  desire  to  try  me  ?  Wherein  didst 
thou  tempt  me  ?  '' 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  his  eyes  sparkling.  But 
the  old  wizard  was  silent  for  a  while.  Then  he  said  : 
"  Did  I  tempt  thee  ?  I  seek  only. 

O  Zarathustra,  I  seek  one  who  is  genuine,  one  right, 
one  simple,  who  hath  only  one  meaning,  a  man  of 
entire  honesty,  a  vessel  of  wisdom,  a  saint  of  per- 
ception, a  great  man  ! 

Knowest  thou  not,  O  Zarathustra  ?  /  seek  Zara- 

Then  a  long  silence  arose  between  the  two.  But 
Zarathustra  sank  deep  into  himself  so  that  he  shut 
his  eyes.  Thereafter,  returning  unto  him  with  whom 


he  had  spoken,  he  seized  the  hand  of  the  wizard  and 
spake  full  of  politeness  and  artfulness  : 

"Up  !  Up  there  leadeth  the  way,  there  lieth  the 
cave  of  Zarathustra.  In  it  thou  mayest  seek  him 
whom  thou  wouldst  find. 

And  ask  mine  animals  for  their  counsel,  mine 
eagle  and  my  serpent !  They  shall  help  thee  to  seek. 
My  cave  is  large. 

Myself,  it  is  true,  I  have  not  yet  seen  a  great 
man.  What  is  great,  for  that  to-day  the  eye  of  the 
finest  is  crude.  It  is  the  kingdom  of  the  mob. 

Many  a  one  I  have  found,  who  strained  himself 
and  puffed  himself  up.  And  the  folk  cried  :  '  Behold 
there,  a  great  man  ! '  But  of  what  good  are  any 
bellows  !  At  last  the  wind  escapeth  from  them. 

At  last  the  frog  bursteth  which  puffed  itself  up 
over-long.  Then  the  wind  escapeth  from  it.  To  stab 
the  womb  of  a  swollen  one,  that  I  call  good  pastime. 
Hearken  unto  that,  ye  boys  ! 

To-day  is  of  the  mob.  Who  knoweth  any  longer 
what  is  great,  what  is  small  ?  Who  could  have  good 
luck  seeking  for  greatness  there  ?  A  fool  only.  Fools 
have  good  luck. 

Thou  seekest  for  great  men,  thou  strange  fool  ? 
Who  taught  thee  that  ?  Is  to-day  the  time  for  it  ? 
Oh,  thou  evil  seeker,  why  dost  thou  tempt  me  ? " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  comforted  in  his  heart, 
and  went  his  way  onwards,  laughing. 


But  not  long  after  Zarathustra  had  rid  himself  of 
the  wizard,  he  again  saw  some  one  sitting  by  the 
way  he  went,  namely  a  black  tall  man  with  a  lean, 
pale  face.  He  annoyed  him  sorely.  "Alas  ! "  said  he 
unto  his  heart,  "  there  sitteth  affliction  disguised.  That 
seemeth  unto  me  to  be  of  the  tribe  of  priests.  What 
want  they  in  my  kingdom  ? 

What !  Scarce  have  I  escaped  from  that  wizard, 
until  another  necromancer  is  fated  to  cross  my  path, 
some  sorcerer  with  laying  on  of  hands  ;  an  obscure 
wonder-worker  by  the  grace  of  God ;  an  anointed 
calumniator  of  the  world  whom  the  devil  seize  ! 

But  the  devil  is  never  on  the  spot  proper  for  him. 
He  always  cometh  too  late,  that  cursed  dwarf  and 
club-foot ! " 

Thus  Zarathustra  impatiently  swore  in  his  heart 
and  meditated  how,  with  his  face  turned  away,  he 
might  pass  unseen  by  the  black  man.  But  behold,  it 
came  to  pass  otherwise.  For  in  the  same  moment 
the  sitting  one  had  seen  him,  and  not  unlike  one  who 

OFF  DUTY  383 

meeteth  with  an  unlocked  for  happiness,  he  jumped 
up  and  walked  towards  Zarathustra. 

"Whosoever  thou  art,  thou  wanderer,"  he  said, 
"  help  one  who  hath  gone  astray,  a  seeker,  an  old  man 
who  may  easily  suffer  injury  here  ! 

This  world  is  strange  and  remote  from  me.  Besides 
I  heard  wild  beasts  howl.  And  he  who  could  have 
given  me  protection,  liveth  no  more. 

I  was  in  search  of  the  last  pious  man,  a  saint  and 
hermit,  who  alone  had  not  heard  in  his  forest  what 
all  the  world  knoweth  to-day." 

"  What  knoweth  all  the  world  to-day  ?  "  asked  Zara- 
thustra. "Is  it  that  the  old  God  liveth  no  more,  in 
whom  all  the  world  once  believed  ?  " 

"Thou  sayest  it,"  answered  the  old  man  sadly. 
"And  I  served  this  old  God  until  his  last  hour. 

But  now  I  am  off  duty,  without  a  master,  and  yet 
neither  free  nor  happy  for  a  single  hour,  except  in 

I  have  ascended  these  mountains,  to  arrange  at 
last  a  festival  for  myself  once  more,  as  behoveth  an 
old  pope  and  church-father  (for  be  it  known  unto  thee  : 
I  am  the  last  pope  !) — a  festival  of  pious  memories 
and  services. 

But  now  even  he  is  dead,  the  most  pious  man, 
that  saint  in  the  forest  who  constantly  praised  his  God 
with  singing  and  humming. 

Himself  I  found   no   more  when  I  found  his  hut. 


But  I  found  two  wolves  therein  which  howled  because 
of  his  death.  For  all  animals  loved  him.  Then  I  hasted 

Had  I  come  in  vain  into  these  forests  and  mount- 
ains ?  Then  my  heart  resolved  to  seek  another,  the 
most  pious  of  all  those  who  believe  not  in  God, — to 
seek  Zarathustra  ! " 

Thus  said  the  old  man  and  gazed  with  keen  eyes 
on  him  who  stood  in  front  of  him.  But  Zarathustra 
seized  the  hand  of  the  old  pope  and  contemplated  it 
a  long  while  with  admiration. 

Then  he  said  :  "  See  there,  thou  venerable  one,  what 
a  beautiful  long  hand  !  It  is  the  hand  of  one  that  hath 
always  given  the  benediction.  But  now  it  holdeth 
him  tight  whom  thou  seekest,  myself,  Zarathustra. 

It  is  I,  ungodly  Zarathustra,  who  say  :  '  Who  is 
ungodlier  than  I,  that  I  may  enjoy  his  teaching  ? ' ' 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  and  pierced  with  his  glance 
the  thoughts  and  back-thoughts  of  the  old  pope,  who 
at  last  began  : 

"He  who  loved  him  and  possessed  him  most,  hath 
now  lost  him  most ! 

Behold,  I  myself  am  probably  at  present  of  us  two 
the  ungodlier  one  ?  But  who  could  rejoice  over  that  ?  " 

"Thou  servedst  him  unto  the  very  last"  asked 
Zarathustra  thoughtfully  after  a  deep  silence,  "thou 
knowest,  how  he  died  ?  Is  it  true  what  folk  say,  that 
he  was  suifocated  by  pity  ? 

OFF  DUTY  385 

That  he  saw  how  man  hung  on  the  cross,  and 
could  not  endure  that  his  love  unto  man  should  be- 
come his  hell  and  at  last  his  death  ?  " 

But  the  old  pope  answered  not,  but  gazed  aside 
shyly  and  with  sullen  cheer. 

"Let  him  go,"  said  Zarathustra  after  long  medita- 
tion, still  gazing  straight  into  the  old  man's  eye. 

"Let  him  go,  he  is  gone.  And  although  it  doth 
honour  unto  thee  that  thou  speakest  well  of  this  dead 
one,  thou  knowest,  as  I  do,  who  he  was,  and  that  he 
went  strange  ways." 

"  Spoken  under  three  eyes,"  said  the  old  pope  cheer- 
fully (for  he  was  blind  of  an  eye),  "  in  matters  of  God 
I  am  more  enlightened  than  Zarathustra  himself,  and 
may  well  be  so. 

My  love  served  him  long  years ;  my  will  followed  all 
his  will.  And  a  good  servant  knoweth  everything,  and 
even  many  things  which  his  master  hideth  from  himself. 

He  was  a  hidden  God,  full  of  secrecy.  Verily, 
even  his  son  he  begat  not  otherwise  than  by  a  secret 
way.  At  the  door  of  belief  in  him  standeth  adultery. 

Whoever  praiseth  him  as  a  God  of  love,  thinketh 
not  highly  enough  of  love  itself.  Did  that  God  not 
also  wish  to  be  a  judge  ?  But  the  loving  one  loveth 
beyond  reward  and  retaliation. 

When  he  was  young,  that  God  from  the  East,  he 
was  hard  and  revengeful,  and  built  up  his  hell  for  the 
delight  of  those  he  loved  best. 



But  at  last  he  grew  old  and  soft  and  mellow  and 
full  of  pity,  more  like  a  grandfather  than  a  father,  but 
most  like  a  shaky  old  grandmother. 

There  he  sat,  withered,  at  his  fireside,  grieved 
because  of  his  weak  legs,  weary  of  the  world,  weary 
of  will,  and  one  day  suffocated  by  his  all-too-great 

"Thou  old  pope,"  said  Zarathustra  interrupting, 
"  hast  thou  seen  that  with  thine  own  eyes  ?  It  might 
have  come  to  pass  like  that ;  like  that,  and  otherwise 
as  well.  When  Gods  die,  they  always  die  divers  kinds 
of  death. 

But  up  !  This  way  or  that,  this  way  and  that ; — 
he  is  gone  !  He  was  contrary  unto  the  taste  of  mine 
ears  and  eyes.  Worse  I  should  not  like  to  say  of  him. 

I  love  everything  that  gazeth  brightly  and  speak- 
eth  honestly.  But  he — thou  knowest  well,  thou  old 
priest,  there  was  something  of  thy  tribe  in  him,  of  the 
priestly  tribe.  He  had  many  meanings. 

Besides,  he  was  indistinct.  How  angry  he  was 
with  us,  this  out-breather  of  wrath,  because  he  thought 
we  understood  him  ill.  But  why  did  he  not  speak 
more  cleanly  ? 

And  if  the  fault  was  of  our  ears,  why  did  he  give 
us  ears  that  heard  badly  ?  And  if  there  was  mud  in 
our  ears,  go  to  !  who  had  put  it  there  ? 

In  too  many  things  he  failed,  this  potter  who  had 
not  served  his  apprenticeship  !  But  in  taking  revenge 

OFF  DUTY  387 

on  his  pots  and  creations,  for  having  turned  out  ill, 
he  committed  a  sin  against  good  taste. 

There  is  good  taste  in  piety  .also.  And  at  last  that 
good  taste  said :  'Away  with  such  a  God  !  Rather 
have  no  God,  rather  be  a  fate  for  one's  self,  rather 
be  a  fool,  rather  be  God  one's  self ! ' ' 

"What  do  I  hear  !"  said  then  the  old  pope,  prick- 
ing up  his  ears  ;  "  O  Zarathustra,  thou  art  more  pious 
than  thou  believest,  with  such  an  unbelief !  Some  God 
within  thee  hath  converted  thee  unto  ungodliness. 

Is  it  not  thy  piety  itself  that  letteth  thee  no  longer 
believe  in  a  God  ?  And  thine  over-great  honesty 
will  one  day  lead  thee  even  beyond  good  and  evil ! 
Lo,  what  hath  been  reserved  for  thee  ?  Thou  hast 
eyes  and  hand  and  mouth.  They  have  been  predestined 
from  eternity  for  bestowing  benedictions.  One  bestow- 
eth  benedictions  not  with  the  hand  alone. 

Although  thou  wouldst  have  thyself  the  ungodliest 
one,  I  perceive,  when  thou  art  nigh,  a  secret,  holy,  and 
goodly  smell  of  long  benedictions.  From  it  I  feel  weal 
and  woe. 

Let  me  be  thy  guest,  O  Zarathustra,  for  a  single 
night !  Nowhere  on  earth  do  I  now  feel  better  than 
with  thee  ! " 

"Amen  !  So  let  it  be  ! "  said  Zarathustra  in  great 
astonishment.  "  Up  there  leadeth  the  way  ;  there  lieth 
the  cave  of  Zarathustra. 

Verily,  with  joy  would  I  lead  thee  there  myself, 



thou  venerable  one-;  for  I  love  all  pious  men.  But 
now  a  cry  for  help  calleth  me  in  haste  away  from 

In  my  province  no  one  shall  suffer  injury.  My 
cave  is  a  good  harbour.  And  best  of  all  would  I 
like  to  set  every  sad  one  on  firm  land  and  on  firm 
legs  once  more. 

But  who  would  take  thy  melancholy  off  thy  shoul- 
ders ?  For  that  I  am  too  weak.  A  long  time,  verily, 
we  should  have  to  wait  before  one  would  re-awaken 
thy  God. 

For  this  old  God  liveth  no  more.  He  is  quite 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


And  again  Zarathustra's  feet  traversed  the  hills  and 
mountains,  and  his  eyes  sought  and  sought,  but  no- 
where could  they  find  him  whom  they  longed  to  see, 
the  great  sufferer  and  crier  for  help.  But  all  the 
way  he  rejoiced  in  his  heart  and  was  grateful.  "What 
good  things,"  said  he,  "have  been  given  unto  me  by 
this  day,  to  make  up  for  it  beginning  so  ill.  What 
strange  speech-makers  I  found  ! 

Over  their  words  I  will  now  chew  for  a  long 
time,  as  over  good  corn.  Into  morsels  shall  my  tooth 
grind  them  and  crush  them,  until  they  flow  into  my 
soul  like  milk  ! " 

But  when  the  road  again  went  round  a  rock,  at 
once  the  landscape  changed,  and  Zarathustra  entered 
a  kingdom  of  death.  Here  black  and  red  cliffs  faced 
sternly  upwards.  No  grass,  no  tree,  no  voice  of  bird. 
For  it  was  a  valley,  shunned  by  all  animals,  even  by 
the  beasts  of  prey.  Only  a  kind  of  ugly,  thick,  green 
snakes  came  thither,  when  they  grew  old,  in  order  to 
die.  Therefore  that  valley  was  called  by  the  herds- 
men "Death  of  Snakes." 


But  Zarathustra  sank  into  dark  recollections,  for 
he  felt  as  though  he  had  stood  in  this  valley  once 
before.  And  many  heavy  things  lay  upon  his  mind,  so 
that  he  walked  slowly  and  ever  more  slowly,  and 
finally  stood  still.  Then,  suddenly,  opening  his  eyes, 
he  saw  sitting  on  the  wayside  a  something  shaped 
like  a  man,  but  scarcely  like  a  man,  a  something 
unutterable.  And  straightway  Zarathustra  was  seized 
by  a  great  shame  for  having  cast  his  eyes  upon  such 
a  thing.  Blushing  up  unto  his  white  hair,  he  turned  his 
look  aside,  and  lifted  his  foot  to  leave  that  evil  spot. 
But  then  the  dead  desert  took  voice.  For  from  the 
ground  something  gushed  up  gurgling  and  rattling, 
as  water  in  the  night  gurgleth  and  rattleth  through 
stopped  water-pipes.  And  at  last  that  something  deve- 
loped into  a  human  voice  and  a  human  speech  which 
sounded  thus  : 

"  Zarathustra !  Zarathustra !  Read  my  riddle !  Speak, 
speak  !  What  is  the  revenge  on  the  witness  ! 

I  tempt  thee  to  return.  Here  is  smooth  ice  !  See 
unto  it,  see  unto  it,  that  thy  pride  do  not  here  break 
its  legs  ! 

Thou  seemest  wise  unto  thyself,  O  proud  Zara- 
thustra !  Read  the  riddle,  read  it,  thou  hard  cracker 
of  nuts, — the  riddle  which  I  am  !  Say,  say :  who 
am  If" 

But  when  Zarathustra  had  heard  these  words, — 
what  think  ye  happened  then  unto  his  soul  ?  Pity 


attacked  him.  And  all  at  once  he  fell  down  like  an 
oak  tree  that  hath  long  resisted  many  wood-cutters, — 
heavily,  suddenly,  unto  the  terror  even  of  those  about 
to  fell  it.  But  forthwith  he  rose  from  the  ground,  and 
his  face  grew  hard. 

"  I  know  thee  well,"  he  said  with  a  brazen  voice. 
"  Thou  art  the  murderer  of  God  !  Let  me  go  ! 

Thou  didst  not  endure  him  who  saw  thee,  who 
saw  thee  always,  and  through  and  through,  thou  ugliest 
man  !  Thou  tookest  revenge  on  this  witness  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  and  was  departing.  But 
the  unutterable  one  grasped  after  the  tail  of  his  coat 
and  began  again  to  gurgle  and  seek  after  words. 
"Stay  !"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Stay  !  Pass  not  by  !  I  have  found  out  what  axe 
hath  laid  thee  low.  All  hail  unto  thee,  O  Zarathustra, 
because  thou  standest  again  ! 

Thou  foundest  out,  I  know  well  enough,  the  mood 
of  His  slayer,  the  mood  of  the  murderer  of  God. 
Stay  !  Sit  down  beside  me.  It  is  not  in  vain. 

Unto  whom  did  I  intend  to  go,  if  not  unto  thee  ? 
Stay,  sit  down  !  But  look  not  at  me  !  Honour  in  that 
way  my  ugliness  ! 

They  persecute  me.  Thou  art  now  my  last  refuge. 
Not  with  their  hatred,  not  with  their  catchpoll.  Oh, 
I  would  scoff  at  such  a  persecution !  I  would  be 
proud  and  rejoice  at  it ! 

Hath  not  all   success  hitherto   been  with   the  well 


persecuted  ?  And  whoever  persecuteth  well,  learneth 
easily  how  to  follow.  For  he  is  behind  somebody  ! 
But  it  is  their  pity — 

It  is  their  pity  from  which  I  flee,  and  flee  unto 
thee.  O  Zarathustra,  protect  me,  thou  my  last  refuge, 
thou  only  one  who  didst  find  me  out ! 

Thou  didst  find  out  the  mood  of  His  slayer.  Stay ! 
And  if  thou  wilt  depart,  thou  impatient  one,  take 
not  the  way  I  have  come.  That  way  is  bad. 

Art  thou  angry  with  me,  because  I  have  minced 
my  words  too  long  ?  Because  I  have  counselled  thee 
already  ?  Be  it  known  unto  thee  :  it  is  I,  the  ugliest 
man, — 

Who  have  also  the  largest,  heaviest  feet.  Where 
/  have  gone,  the  road  is  bad.  I  trample  unto  death, 
and  ruin  all  roads. 

But  that  thou  didst  pass  me  by,  silent ;  that  thou 
didst  blush,  I  saw  well.  Thereby  I  knew  thee  to  be 

Any  other  man  would  have  thrown  his  alms  unto 
me,  his  pity,  with  look  and  speech.  But  for  that  I 
am  not  beggar  enough,  as  thou  didst  find  out. 

For  that  I  am  too  rich,  rich  in  great  things,  in 
terrible  things,  in  the  most  ugly  things,  in  the  most 
unutterable  things !  Thy  blushing,  O  Zarathustra, 
honoured  me  ! 

With  much  trouble  I  have  got  away  from  the 
thronging  of  the  pitiful,  in  order  to  find  the  only 


one  who  teacheth  to-day  :  '  Pity  is  an  intruder.'  To 
find  thyself,  O  Zarathustra  ! 

Be  it  a  God's,  be  it  men's  pity  :  pity  is  contrary 
unto  shame.  And  not  to  will  to  help  may  be  nobler 
than  that  virtue  which  readily  giveth  assistance. 

But  that  is  to-day  called  virtue  indeed  by  all  petty 
folk  :  namely,  pity.  They  feel  no  reverence  for  great 
misfortune,  for  great  ugliness,  for  great  failure. 

Over  all  these  I  gaze  into  the  distance,  as  a  dog 
gazeth  over  the  backs  of  dense  flocks  of  sheep.  They 
are  petty  gray  folk,  with  good  wool  and  good  will. 

As  a  heron  gazeth  scornfully  over  shallow  ponds, 
with  its  head  laid  back,  thus  I  gaze  on  the  dense 
crowd  of  gray  small  waves  and  wills  and  souls. 

Too  long  have  they  been  admitted  to  be  right, 
these  petty  folk.  Thus  at  last  they  have  also  been 
given  power.  Now  they  teach  :  '  Good  is  only  what 
the  petty  folk  approve.' 

And  it  is  to-day  called  truth  what  that  preacher 
hath  said,  who  sprung  from  themselves,  that  strange 
saint  and  advocate  of  the  petty  folk  who  proclaimed 
of  himself:  'I — I  am  the  truth.' 

This  immodest  one  hath  now  for  a  long  time  reared 
the  crest  of  the  petty  folk — he  who  taught  no  small 
error  when  he  taught :  '  I  am  the  truth.' 

Hath  an  immodest  one  ever  been  answered  more 
politely  ?  But  thou,  O  Zarathustra,  didst  pass  him  by 
and  say  :  '  Nay  !  Nay  !  Three  times  Nay  ! ' 


Thou  didst  warn  folk  of  his  error,  thou  wert  the 
first  to  warn  against  pity — not  all,  not  none,  but  thy- 
self and  thy  tribe. 

Thou  art  ashamed  of  the  shame  of  the  great 
sufferer.  And,  verily,  when  thou  sayest :  'From  pity 
there  cometh  a  great  cloud,  ye  men  beware ; ' 

When  thou  teachest :  'All  creators  are  hard,  all 
great  love  is  raised  above  their  pity  ; ' — O  Zarathustra, 
how  well-read  thou  seemest  unto  me  in  weather- 
omens  ! 

But  thyself, — warn  also  thyself  against  thy  pity  ! 
For  many  are  on  the  way  unto  thee,  many  suffering, 
doubting,  despairing,  drowning,  cold  folk. 

I  also  warn  thee  against  myself.  Thou  hast  found 
out  my  best,  my  worst  riddle,  myself  and  what  I  had 
done.  I  know  the  axe  that  layeth  thee  low. 

But  He  was  compelled  to  die.  He  looked  at  things 
with  eyes  that  saw  everything.  He  saw  the  depths 
and  abysses  of  man,  all  his  hidden  shame  and  ugliness. 

His  pity  knew  no  shame.  He  crept  into  my  foulest 
corners.  This  most  curious,  over-officious,  over-pitiful 
one  was  compelled  to  die. 

He  always  saw  myself.  On  such  a  witness  I  wished 
to  take  revenge,  or  rather  not  to  live  at  all ! 

The  God  who  saw  everything,  including  man — 
this  God  was  compelled  to  die  !  Man  endureth  not 
that  such  a  witness  should  live." 


Thus  spake  the  ugliest  man.  But  Zarathustra  got 
up  and  prepared  to  depart.  For  he  was  shuddering 
unto  his  very  bowels. 

"  Thou  unutterable  one,"  said  he,  "  thou  didst  warn 
me  against  thy  road.  In  thanks  for  that  I  praise  mine 
unto  thee.  Behold,  up  that  way  lieth  Zarathustra's  cave. 

My  cave  is  large  and  deep  and  hath  many  corners. 
There  the  best  hidden  one  findeth  a  hiding  place. 
And  close  unto  it  are  an  hundred  things  to  slip  under 
and  creep  past,  for  creeping,  fluttering  and  leaping 

Thou  outcast  who  castest  thyself  out,  thou  wilt 
not  stay  among  men  and  human  pity  ?  Up,  act  like 
me  !  Thus  thou  learnest  even  from  me.  The  doer 
alone  learneth. 

And  speak  first,  and  first  of  all,  with  mine  animals ! 
The  proudest  animal  and  the  wisest  animal — they 
might  be  the  proper  counsellors  for  us  both!" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  and  went  his  way,  still 
more  thoughtful  and  slow  than  before.  For  he  asked 
himself  many  things,  and  did  not  easily  know  the 

"  How  poor  is  man  after  all ! "  he  thought  in  his 
heart.  "  How  ugly,  how  rattling,  how  full  of  hidden 
shame  ! 

I  am  told  that  man  loveth  himself.  Alas,  how 
great  must  that  self-love  be  !  How  much  contempt 
hath  it  opposed  unto  it! 


Even  that  man  "there  loved  himself  even  as  he 
despised  himself.  A  great  lover  is  he,  methinketh,  and 
a  great  despiser. 

Never  yet  have  I  found  any  one  who  did  despise 
himself  more  deeply.  Even  that  is  height.  Alas  !  can 
he  have  been  the  higher  man  whose  cry  I  heard  ? 

I  love  the  great  despisers.  But  man  is  a  some- 
thing that  must  be  surpassed." 


When  Zarathustra  had  left  the  ugliest  man,  he  felt 
cold  and  he  felt  lonely.  For  many  cold  and  lonely 
things  passed  through  his  mind,  chilling  even  his  limbs. 
But  when  walking  on  and  on,  upwards,  downwards, 
now  passing  green  meadows,  then  over  wild  stony 
strata  where  once  peradventure  an  impatient  brook 
had  lain  down  to  sleep,  he  felt  all  at  once  warmer 
and  heartier  again. 

"  What  hath  happened  unto  me  ?  "  he  asked  himself. 
"  Something  warm  and  living  refresheth  me.  It  must 
be  nigh  unto  me. 

Already  I  am  less  alone.  Unconscious  companions 
and  brethren  hover  round  me  ;  their  warm  breath 
toucheth  my  soul." 

But  when  he  looked  round  him,  and  searched  for 
the  comforters  of  his  loneliness,  behold,  there  were 
cows  standing  on  a  hill  together.  Their  nearness  and 
smell  had  warmed  his  heart  But  these  cows  seemed 
to  listen  eagerly  unto  a  speaker,  and  took  no  notice 
of  him  who  approached  them.  But  when  Zarathustra 


was  quite  nigh  unto  them,  he  heard  distinctly  a  human 
voice  out  of  the  midst  of  the  cows.  And  appar- 
ently all  of  them  had  turned  their  heads  unto  the 

Then  Zarathustra  eagerly  hurried  up  and  pushed 
the  animals  aside.  For  he  feared  that  unto  some  one 
harm  had  been  done,  which  could  scarcely  be  cured 
by  the  pity  of  cows.  But  therein  he  erred.  For  be- 
hold, there  sat  a  man  on  the  ground,  and  seemed  to 
persuade  the  animals  not  to  be  shy  of  him, — a  peaceful 
man  and  mount-preacher,  out  of  whose  eyes  kindness 
itself  preached.  "  What  seekest  thou  here  ?  "  exclaimed 
Zarathustra  astonished. 

"What  I  seek  here?"  the  man  answered.  "The 
same  thing  as  thou  seekest,  thou  disturber !  hap- 
piness on  earth  ! 

For  that  purpose  I  would  fain  learn  from  these 
cows.  For  dost  thou  know  ?  Already  half  the  morn- 
ing I  have  been  addressing  them  ;  and  now  they 
were  on  the  point  of  giving  me  their  answer.  Why 
disturbest  thou  them  ? 

If  we  do  not  turn  and  become  like  the  cows,  we 
shah1  not  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  For  we 
should  learn  from  them  one  thing :  to  ruminate. 

And,  verily,  if  man  were  to  gain  the  whole  world 
and  would  not  learn  the  one  thing,  to  ruminate — of 
what  good  would  it  be  ?  He  would  not  get  rid  of  his 
affliction  ! 


Of  his  great  affliction.  But  that  to-day  is  called 
loathing  !  Whose  heart,  mouth  and  eyes  are  not  filled 
to-day  with  loathing  ?  Thou  also  !  Thou  also  !  But  be- 
hold these  cows  ! " 

Thus  spake  the  mount-preacher,  and  then  turned 
his  own  look  unto  Zarathustra.  For  until  then  it  had 
clung  lovingly  unto  the  cows.  Then  he  suddenly 
changed.  "  Unto  whom  do  I  speak  ? "  he  exclaimed, 
terrified,  and  leaped  up  from  the  ground. 

"  This  is  the  man  without  loathing,  this  is  Zara- 
thustra himself,  the  overcomer  of  the  great  loathing. 
This  is  the  eye,  this  is  the  mouth,  this  is  the  heart  of 
Zarathustra  himself." 

And  speaking  thus,  he  kissed  the  hands  of  him 
unto  whom  he  spake,  with  his  eyes  overflowing,  and 
behaved  like  unto  one  for  whom  a  valuable  gift  and 
treasure  hath  fallen  from  heaven  unawares.  But  the 
cows  gazed  at  all  that  and  wondered. 

"  Speak  not  of  me,  thou  strange  one,  sweet  one  !  " 
said  Zarathustra,  restraining  his  affection.  "  Speak  first 
of  thyself!  Art  thou  not  the  voluntary  beggar  who 
once  threw  away  vast  riches, — 

Who  was  ashamed  of  his  riches  and  of  the  rich, 
and  fled  unto  the  poorest  in  order  to  give  them  his 
abundance  and  his  heart  ?  But  they  accepted  him  not." 

"But  they  accept  him  not,"  said  the  voluntary 
beggar,  "thou  knowest  it,  I  see.  Thus  at  last  I  have 
come  unto  the  animals  and  unto  these  cows." 


"  There  thou  learnedst,"  said  Zarathustra  interrupting 
the  speaker,  "how  much  harder  it  is  to  give  properly 
than  to  take  properly,  and  that  to  give  well  is  an  art 
and  the  last  and  cunningest  master-art  of  kindness." 

"In  particular,  nowadays,"  answered  the  voluntary 
beggar,  "  i.  e.,  to-day,  when  all  that  is  low  hath  be- 
come rebellious  and  shy  and  high-minded  in  its  own 
way,  i.  e.,  in  the  way  of  the  mob. 

For  the  hour  hath  come,  thou  knowest  it,  for  the 
great,  bad,  long,  slow  rebellion  of  the  mob  and  the 
slaves.  It  groweth  and  groweth  ! 

Now  all  alms-giving  and  petty  giving  make  the 
low  rebellious.  And  the  over-rich  ought  to  be  on  their 
guard  ! 

Whoever  to-day  letteth  drops  fall,  as  doth  a  big- 
bellied  bottle,  out  of  an  all-too-narrow  neck — the  neck 
of  such  a  bottle  is  gladly  broken  to-day. 

Voluptuous  greediness,  bilious  envy,  angry  revenge, 
pride  of  the  mob, — all  these  things  leaped  into  my 
face.  It  is  no  longer  true  that  the  poor  are  blessed. 
But  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  with  the  cows." 

"  And  why  is  it  not  with  the  rich  ? "  asked  Zara- 
thustra tempting,  while  keeping  back  the  cows,  which 
familiarly  sniffed  at  the  peaceful  one. 

"  Why  dost  thou  tempt  me  ?  "  answered  he.  "  Thou 
knowest  it  thyself  still  better  than  I  do.  What  drove 
me  unto  the  poorest,  O  Zarathustra  ?  Was  it  not  my 
loathing  of  our  richest  ones  ? 


Of  the  convicts  guilty  of  riches,  who  collect  their 
profit  out  of  all  rubbish  heaps,  with  cool  eyes  and 
voluptuous  thoughts — of  that  rabble  that  stinketh 
unto  heaven, — 

Of  that  gilded-over,  falsified  mob,  whose  fathers 
were  thieves  or  birds  of  carrion,  or  rag-gatherers  with 
wives  complaisant,  voluptuous,  and  forgetful  (for  none 
of  them  hath  a  far  way  to  go  to  become  a  whore) ; 

Mob  at  the  top,  mob  below !  What  are  to-day 
'poor'  and  'rich!'  This  distinction  have  I  unlearnt. 
Then  I  fled  away,  further,  ever  further,  until  I  came 
unto  these  cows." 

Thus  spake  the  peaceful  one,  and  snuffed  himself, 
and  perspired  over  his  words,  so  that  the  cows 
wondered  again.  But  Zarathustra,  all  the  time  the  man 
was  speaking  so  bitterly,  gazed  with  a  smile  into  his 
face,  and  silently  shook  his  head. 

"Thou  dost  violence  unto  thyself,  thou  mount- 
preacher,  in  using  such  bitter  words.  For  such  bitter- 
ness neither  thy  mouth  nor  thine  eye  was  made. 

Nor,  methinketh,  even  thy  stomach.  Unto  it  all 
such  anger  and  hatred  and  overflowing  are  repugnant. 
Thy  stomach  desireth  gentler  things.  Thou  art  not  a 

Thou  rather  seemest  unto  me  to  be  an  eater  of 
plants  and  roots.  Perhaps  thou  grindest  corn.  But 
certainly  thou  art  averse  from  the  pleasures  of  the 
flesh  and  thou  lovest  honey." 



"Thou  hast  well  found  me  out,"  answered  the 
voluntary  beggar  with  his  heart  lightened.  "I  love 
honey,  I  also  grind  corn,  for  I  sought  what  tasteth 
sweetly  and  maketh  the  breath  pure. 

I  sought  also  what  needeth  a  long  time,  namely 
a  day's  work  and  a  mouth's  work  for  gentle  idlers 
and  sluggards. 

The  highest  point,  it  is  true,  hath  been  reached 
by  these  cows.  They  invented  ruminating  and  lying 
in  the  sunshine.  They  also  abstain  from  all  heavy 
thoughts  that  cause  flatulence  in  the  heart." 

"  Go  to ! "  said  Zarathustra.  "  Thou  shouldst  see  mine 
animals  as  well,  mine  eagle  and  my  serpent.  Their 
like  doth  not  exist  on  earth  this  day. 

Behold,  in  this  direction  leadeth  the  way  unto  my 
cave.  Be  this  night  its  guest!  And  speak  with  mine 
animals  of  the  happiness  of  animals, — 

Until  I  return  home  myself.  For  now  a  cry  for 
help  calleth  me  away  from  thee  in  haste.  Thou  also 
wilt  find  fresh  honey  with  me,  golden  honey  with 
comb,  as  cold  as  ice.  Eat  it. 

But  now  take  swift  farewell  of  thy  cows,  thou 
strange  one,  thou  sweet  one !  although  it  may  be 
hard  unto  thee.  For  they  are  thy  dearest  friends  and 
teachers  ! " 

"One  excepted  whom  I  love  still  more,"  answered 
the  voluntary  beggar.  "Thou  art  thyself  good,  and 
better  even  than  a  cow,  O  Zarathustra  ! " 


"Away,  away  with  thee,  thou  evil  flatterer  ! "  cried 
Zarathustra  mischievously.  "Why  dost  thou  spoil  me 
with  such  praise  and  honey  of  flattery  ? 

Away,  away  from  me  ! "  he  cried  once  more,  and 
swung  his  stick  after  the  affectionate  beggar,  who 
ran  hastily  away. 



When  the  voluntary  beggar  had  hasted  away,  and 
Zarathustra  was  again  alone  with  himself,  behind  him 
he  heard  a  new  voice  crying  :  "  Halt !  Zarathustra  ! 
Wait !  Wait  !  It  is  I,  O  Zarathustra,  I,  thy  shadow  ! " 
But  Zarathustra  waited  not;  for  a  sudden  annoyance 
seized  him  because  of  the  great  crowding  and  throng- 
ing in  his  mountains.  "Whither  hath  my  loneliness 
gone  ?  "  he  said. 

"This,  verily,  is  becoming  too  much  for  me.  These 
mountains  are  overcrowded;  my  kingdom  is  no  longer 
of  this  world  ;  I  need  new  mountains. 

My  shadow  calleth  me  ?  What  matter  for  my 
shadow  ?  Let  it  run  after  me  !  I  run  away  from  it." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  unto  his  heart,  and  ran 
away.  But  he  who  was  behind  him,  followed  him, 
so  that  very  soon  three  runners  were  on  the  way, 
one  behind  the  other.  For  in  the  front  was  the  volun- 
tary beggar,  then  followed  Zarathustra,  and  the  third 
and  last  was  his  shadow.  Not  long  had  they  run, 
until  Zarathustra  came  out  of  his  folly  and  back  unto 


reason,  and  of  a  sudden  he  shook  off  all  annoyance 
and  disgust. 

"  What ! "  said  he,  "  Have  not  at  all  times  the  most 
ridiculous  things  happened  unto  us  old  hermits  and 
saints  ? 

Verily,  my  folly  hath  grown  high  in  the  mount- 
ains !  Now  I  hear  rattle  behind  each  other  six  legs 
of  old  fools  ! 

But  is  it  allowed  unto  Zarathustra  to  be  afraid  of 
his  shadow  ?  Besides,  methinketh  in  the  long  run 
it  hath  longer  legs  than  I." 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  laughing  with  eyes  and 
intestines.  He  stopped  and  turned  quickly  round. 
And,  behold,  in  so  doing  he  almost  threw  his  follower 
and  shadow  unto  the  ground.  So  close  did  the  latter 
follow  at  his  heels,  and  so  weak  was  he.  When  he 
looked  intently  upon  him,  Zarathustra  was  terrified  as 
by  a  sudden  ghost.  So  thin,  black,  hollow  and  worn- 
out  looked  that  follower. 

"  What  art  thou  ? "  asked  Zarathustra  violently, 
"  What  dost  thou  here  ?  And  why  callest  thou  thy- 
self my  shadow  ?  Thou  pleasest  me  not." 

"Forgive  me,"  answered  the  shadow,  "that  it  is  I. 
And  if  I  please  thee  not — well,  O  Zarathustra,  in  that 
respect  I  praise  thee  and  thy  good  taste. 

A  wanderer  am  I  who  hath  already  gone  far  at 
thy  heels  ;  ever  on  the  way,  but  without  a  goal  and 
without  a  home,  so  that,  verily,  I  fall  little  short  of  being 


the  eternal,  wandering  Jew,  except  that  I  am  neither 
eternal  nor  a  Jew. 

What  ?  Must  I  be  ever  on  the  way  ?  Whirled 
about  by  every  wind,  unstable,  driven  away  ?  O  earth, 
thou  hast  grown  too  round  for  me  ! 

On  every  surface  I  have  sat.  Like  the  wearied 
dust,  I  have  fallen  asleep  on  looking-glasses  and 
window-panes.  Everything  taketh  from  me,  nothing 
giveth;  I  become  thin,  I  am  almost  like  a  shadow. 

But  after  thee,  O  Zarathustra,  I  have  flown  and 
travelled  longest.  And  though  I  hid  myself  from  thee, 
yet  have  I  been  thy  best  shadow.  Wherever  thou 
hast  sat,  there  sat  I. 

With  thee  I  have  haunted  the  remotest,  coldest 
worlds,  like  a  ghost  that  voluntarily  walketh  over 
wintry  roofs  and  snow. 

With  thee  have  I  striven  for  everything  forbidden, 
the  worst  and  remotest.  And  if  anything  in  me  is 
virtue,  it  is  that  I  had  no  fear  in  the  presence  of 
any  prohibition. 

With  thee  have  I  broken  whatever  my  heart  revered ; 
all  landmarks  and  images  I  threw  down ;  I  pursued 
the  most  dangerous  wishes.  Verily,  I  have  traversed 
every  crime  once. 

With  thee  I  unlearned  the  belief  in  words  and 
values  and  great  names.  When  the  devil  casteth  his 
skin,  doth  not  his  name  fall  off  as  well  ?  For  that 
is  also  skin.  Perhaps  the  devil  himself  is  skin. 


'  Nothing  is  true,  everything  is  lawful '  thus  I  spake 
unto  myself.  Into  the  coldest  waters  I  threw  myself 
with  head  and  heart.  Oh,  how  often  have  I  stood 
naked,  red  like  a  crab  through  so  doing  ! 

Alas,  whither  hath  gone  all  that  is  good,  and  all 
shame,  and  all  belief  in  the  good  !  Alas,  whither  hath 
gone  that  deceitful  innocence  I  once  possessed,  the 
innocence  of  the  good  and  of  their  noble  falsehoods  ! 

Too  often,  verily,  I  followed  truth  close  on  its  heel. 
Then  it  kicked  me  on  the  forehead.  Sometimes  I  thought 
I  lied,  and  behold  !  Only  then  did  I  hit  upon  truth  ! 

Too  many  things  were  made  clear  unto  me.  Now 
it  concerneth  me  no  more.  Nothing  of  what  I  love 
liveth  any  longer, — why  should  I  love  myself  still  ? 

'To  live,  as  I  like,  or  to  live  not  at  all,'  thus  I 
will,  thus  even  the  holiest  one  willeth.  But  alas ! 
how  do  /  still  like  ? 

Have  /  still  a  goal  ?  A  harbour  for  which  my 
sail  is  trimmed  ? 

A  good  wind  ?  Alas,  only  he  who  knoweth 
whither  he  saileth,  knoweth  also  what  wind  is  good, 
and  what  is  his  fair  wind. 

What  is  left  unto  me  ?  A  heart  weary  and  in- 
solent ;  an  unstable  will ;  fluttering  wings  ;  a  broken 

This  seeking  after  my  home,  O  Zarathustra,  knowest 
thou  ? — this  seeking  was  my  punishment,  it  eateth  me  up. 

'  Where  is  my  home  ? '    Thus  I  ask  and  seek  and 


have  sought.  I  have-  found  it  not.  Oh,  eternal  Every- 
where !  Oh,  eternal  Nowhere  !  Oh,  eternal  In-vain  ! " 

Thus  spake  the  shadow,  and  Zarathustra's  face 
grew  longer  when  he  heard  his  words.  "  Thou  art  my 
shadow  ! "  he  said  sadly  at  last. 

"  Thy  danger  is  not  small,  thou  free  spirit  and  wan- 
derer !  Thou  hast  had  a  bad  day.  See  unto  it,  that  a 
worse  evening  be  not  added. 

Unto  such  unstable  ones,  as  thou  art,  at  last  even 
a  prison  seemeth  bliss.  Sawest  thou  ever  how  cap- 
tured criminals  sleep  ?  They  sleep  quietly;  they  enjoy 
their  new  security. 

Beware  lest  at  last  a  narrow  creed  catch  thee,  a 
hard,  severe  illusion  !  For  thou  art  now  seduced  and 
tempted  by  everything  narrow  and  firm. 

Thou  hast  lost  thy  goal.  Alas  !  how  wilt  thou  bear 
and  brook  that  loss  ?  By  it  thou  hast  also  lost  the  way ! 

Thou  poor  wandering  one,  thou  fleeting  one,  thou 
weary  butterfly  !  Wilt  thou  have  this  night  a  place  of 
rest  and  home  ?  If  so,  go  up  unto  my  cave  ! 

Yonder  goeth  the  way  unto  my  cave.  And  now 
I  will  quickly  run  away  from  thee.  Already  some- 
thing lieth  on  me  like  a  shadow. 

I  will  run  alone,  so  that  it  may  again  grow  light 
around  me.  For  that  purpose  I  must  be  yet  a  long 
while  gaily  on  my  legs.  But  in  the  evening  at  my 
home  there  will  be  a  dance  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


And  Zarathustra  ran,  and  still  ran,  finding  no  one 
else,  and  was  alone  ever  finding  himself  again.  And  he 
enjoyed  and  sipped  his  loneliness,  thinking  of  good 
things,  through  many  hours.  But  about  the  hour  of 
noon,  when  the  sun  stood  exactly  over  Zarathustra's 
head,  he  passed  by  an  old  crooked  and  knaggy  tree 
which  was  embraced  round  about  by  the  rich  love 
of  a  vine-plant  and  hidden  from  itself.  From  it  an 
abundance  of  yellow  grapes  hung  down,  offering  them- 
selves unto  the  wanderer.  Then  he  felt  a  desire  to 
quench  a  little  thirst  and  to  break  off  a  grape.  When 
he  had  stretched  out  his  arm  for  it,  he  felt  a  still 
stronger  desire  for  something  else,  to  lie  down  beside 
the  tree,  about  the  hour  of  perfect  noon,  and  to  sleep. 

Zarathustra  did  so.  And  no  sooner  did  he  lie  down 
on  the  ground,  in  the  stillness  and  secrecy  of  the 
many-coloured  grass,  than  he  forgot  his  little  thirst 
and  fell  asleep.  For,  as  Zarathustra's  saying  hath  it : 
"  One  thing  is  more  necessary  than  the  other."  Only 
his  eyes  remained  open.  For  they  could  not  satisfy 


themselves  with  looking  at  the  tree,  and  at  the  love 
of  the  vine-plant,  and  in  praising  them.  But  when 
falling  asleep,  Zarathustra  spake  thus  unto  his  heart : 

"  Hush  !  Hush  !  Hath  the  world  not  this  moment 
become  perfect  ?  Oh,  what  happeneth  unto  me  ? 

As  a  neat  wind  unseen  danceth  on  the  panelled 
sea,  light,  light  as  a  feather,  thus  danceth  sleep  on  me. 

Nor  doth  it  shut  mine  eye;  it  leaveth  my  soul 
awake.  Light  it  is,  verily,  as  light  as  a  feather. 

It  persuadeth  me,  I  know  not  how.  It  toucheth 
me  from  the  inside  with  a  flattering  hand.  It  com- 
pelleth  me.  Yea,  compelleth  me,  so  that  my  soul 
stretcheth  itself  out. 

How  long  and  weary  it  groweth  unto  me,  my 
strange  soul !  Did  the  evening  of  a  seventh  day  come 
unto  it  just  at  noon  ?  Hath  it  already  walked  too  long 
happy  among  good  and  ripe  things  ? 

It  stretcheth  itself  out,  long,  long,  longer  !  It  lieth 
still,  my  strange  soul.  Too  many  good  things  it  hath 
tasted  before.  This  golden  sadness  presseth  upon  it ; 
it  maketh  a  wry  mouth. 

Like  a  ship  that  hath  entered  her  calmest  bay  (Now 
she  leaneth  towards  the  land,  weary  of  the  long  voyages 
and  the  uncertain  seas.  Is  not  the  land  more  faithful  ? 

As  such  a  ship  putteth  to  the  shore  and  goeth 
close  in  ;  then  it  is  enough  that  a  spider  spin  its 
thread  unto  it  from  the  land.  No  stronger  ropes  are 
required  there  ;) 

AT  NOON  411 

Like  such  a  weary  ship  in  the  calmest  bay,  I  now 
rest  nigh  unto  the  land,  faithful,  trusting,  waiting, 
moored  unto  it  with  the  gentlest  threads. 

O  happiness  !  O  happiness  !  Wilt  thou  sing,  O  my 
soul  ?  Thou  liest  in  the  grass.  But  this  is  the  secret, 
solemn  hour,  when  no  herdsman  playeth  on  his  flute. 

Keep  off!  Hot  noon  sleepeth  on  the  fields.  Sing 
not !  Hush  !  The  world  is  perfect. 

Sing  not,  thou  grass-bird,  O  my  soul !  Whisper 
not  even  !  Behold  !  Hush  !  The  old  noon  sleepeth,  it 
moveth  its  mouth.  Doth  it  not  this  moment  drink  a 
drop  of  happiness — 

An  old  brown  drop  of  golden  happiness,  of  golden 
wine  ?  Something  glideth  across  it,  its  happiness  laugh- 
eth.  Thus  laugheth  a  God.  Hush  ! 

'  For  happiness — how  little  is  required  for  happiness ! ' 
Thus  I  said  once,  and  thought  myself  wise.  But  it 
was  a  blasphemy.  I  have  now  learnt  that.  Wise  fools 
speak  better. 

Just  what  is  least,  gentlest,  lightest,  the  rustling  of 
a  lizard,  a  breath,  a  moment,  a  twinkling  of  the  eye — 
little  maketh  the  quality  of  the  best  happiness.  Hush  ! 

What  hath  befallen  me  ?  Hearken  !  Did  time  fly 
away  ?  Do  I  not  fall  ?  Did  I  not  fall — hearken  ! — into 
the  well  of  eternity  ? 

What  befalleth  me  ?  Hush  !  It  stingeth  me — alas  ! 
—unto  the  heart  ?  Unto  the  heart !  Oh,  break,  break, 
heart,  after  such  happiness,  after  such  a  sting  ! 


What  ?  Hath  the  world  not  just  become  perfect  ? 
Round  and  ripe  ?  Oh,  for  the  golden  round  ring ! 
Whither  doth  it  fly  ?  Run  after  it !  Away  ! 

Hush ! "  (And  here  Zarathustra  stretched  himself 
out,  feeling  that  he  slept.) 

"  Up  ! "  he  said  unto  himself,  "  thou  sleeper !  Thou 
sleeper  at  noon  !  Up  !  Up  !  ye  old  legs  !  Time  it  is  and 
only  too  much  time.  Many  a  long  stretch  of  road  is 
still  reserved  for  you  ! 

Now  ye  have  slept  your  fill.  How  long  ?  Half  an 
eternity  !  Up  !  Up  !  now,  mine  old  heart !  How  long 
wilt  thou,  after  such  a  sleep,  be  allowed  to  have  thy 
fill  of  wakefulness  ?  " 

But  then  he  fell  asleep  afresh,  and  his  soul  spake 
against  him,  and  defended  itself,  and  lay  down  again. 
"  Oh,  let  me  alone  !  Hush  !  Hath  not  the  world  be- 
come perfect  this  moment  ?  Oh,  for  the  golden,  round 

Get  up,"  said  Zarathustra,  "thou  little  thief,  thou 
thief  of  days  !  What !  Still  longer  wilt  thou  stretch 
thyself  out,  yawn,  sigh,  fall  down  into  deep  wells  ? 

Who  art  thou  ?  O  my  soul  ! "  (And  here  he  was 
terrified  ;  for  a  sun-beam  fell  down  from  the  sky  upon 
his  face.) 

"  O  sky  above  me  !  "  said  he  sighing  and  sat  upright. 
"  Thou  gazest  at  me  ?  Thou  hearkenest  unto  my  strange 
soul  ? 

When  drinkest  thou   this  drop   of  dew  that  hath 

AT  NOON  413 

fallen  down  on  all  things  earthly?  When  drinkest  thou 
this  strange  soul  ? 

When,  well  of  eternity  ?  Thou  gay,  shuddering 
abyss  of  noon  !  When  drinkest  thou  my  soul  back 
into  thyself?" 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra  and  arose  from  his  resting- 
place  nigh  unto  the  tree,  as  from  a  strange  drunken- 
ness. And  behold  !  there  the  sun  still  stood  exactly 
above  his  head.  And  from  that,  some  one  might  duly 
suppose  that  Zarathustra  had  not  slept  long. 


Late  in  the  afternoon  it  was  when  Zarathustra 
after  having  searched  and  strayed  about  for  a  long 
time  in  vain,  returned  unto  his  cave.  But  when  he 
stood  over  against  unto  it,  no  longer  twenty  steps 
distant  from  it,  that  thing  came  to  pass  which  he  expect- 
ed least.  Anew  he  heard  the  great  cry  for  help.  And, 
astounding !  this  time  it  came  from  his  own  cave. 
And  it  was  a  long,  manifold,  strange  cry.  And  Zara- 
thustra distinguished  clearly  that  it  was  composed  of 
many  voices,  though,  when  heard  from  a  distance,  it 
might  sound  like  a  cry  from  a  single  mouth. 

Then  Zarathustra  hasted  unto  his  cave,  and  behold, 
what  spectacle  awaited  him  there  after  that  concert ! 
For  there  they  all  sat  together  whom  he  had  passed  by 
during  the  day  :  the  king  on  the  right  and  the  king 
on  the  left ;  the  old  wizard ;  the  pope ;  the  voluntary 
beggar ;  the  shadow ;  the  conscientious  one  of  the  spirit ; 
the  sad  fortune-teller;  and  the  ass.  And  the  ugliest  man 
had  put  a  crown  on  his  head,  and  tied  round  him- 
self two  purple  belts.  For,  like  all  ugly  folk,  he  liked 


to  disguise  himself  and  play  the  gallant.  But  in  the 
midst  of  that  sad  company  stood  Zarathustra's  eagle, 
its  feathers  ruffled  and  itself  disquieted.  For  it  had  been 
asked  to  answer  many  questions  for  which  its  pride 
knew  no  answer.  And  the  wise  serpent  hung  round 
its  neck. 

At  all  this  Zarathustra  looked  with  great  astonish- 
ment. Then  he  examined  each  of  his  guests  with 
gracious  curiosity,  read  the  contents  of  their  souls  and 
was  once  more  astonished.  In  the  meantime  they 
who  had  gathered  there,  had  arisen  from  their  seats 
and  waited  with  reverence  till  Zarathustra  should 
speak.  And  Zarathustra  spake  thus  : 

"  Ye  despairing  ones  !  Ye  strange  ones !  Then  it 
was  your  cry  for  help  I  heard  ?  And  now  also  \  know 
where  he  is  to  be  sought  whom  I  this  day  sought  for 
in  vain  :  the  higher  man. 

In  mine  own  cave  sitteth  he,  the  higher  man  !  But 
why  am  I  astonished  ?  Have  not  I  myself  allured  him 
unto  myself,  by  honey  offerings,  and  cunning,  enticing 
calls  of  my  happiness  ? 

But  methinketh,  ye  are  not  very  suitable  to  form 
a  company,  ye  make  each  other's  hearts  angry,  ye 
criers  for  help,  when  sitting  together  here  ?  One  must 
first  come — 

One  who  will  make  you  laugh  again,  a  good,  gay 
clown,  a  dancer  and  a  wind  and  romp,  some  old  fool. 
What  think  ye  ? 


Forgive  me,  ye  -despairing  ones,  that  in  your  pre- 
sence I  speak  with  such  small  words,  unworthy,  verily, 
of  such  guests  !  But  ye  find  not  out  what  maketh  my 
heart  wanton. 

Ye  yourselves  do  so,  and  your  look,  forgive  me  ! 
For  every  one  becometh  brave  who  looketh  at  a  de- 
spairing one.  To  encourage  a  despairing  one — for  that 
every  one  thinketh  himself  strong  enough. 

Unto  myself  ye  have  given  this  power,  a  good 
gift,  my  lofty  guests  !  An  honest  guest's  gift  !  Well 
then,  be  not  angry  at  me  now  offering  you  something 
of  what  is  mine  also. 

This  here  is  my  kingdom  and  my  dominion.  But 
whatever  is  mine  shall  be  yours  for  this  evening  and 
this  night.  Mine  animals  shah1  serve  you.  My  cave 
shall  be  your  resting  place  ! 

In  mine  own  home  and  house  no  one  shah1  despair. 
In  my  province  I  protect  everyone  from  his  own  wild 
beasts.  And  this  is  the  first  thing  I  offer  you  :  se- 
curity ! 

But  the  second  thing  is  my  little  finger.  And  if 
ye  once  have  it,  take  the  whole  hand  in  addition,  yea, 
and  the  heart  with  it !  Welcome  here,  welcome,  my 
guests  and  friends  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  laughing  with  love  and 
wickedness.  After  this  salutation  his  guests  bowed 
again  and  were  silent  in  reverence.  And  the  king 
on  the  right  answered  him  in  their  name. 


"  From  the  way,  O  Zarathustra,  that  thou  offeredst 
us  thy  hand  and  greeting,  we  know  thee  to  be  Zara- 
thustra. Thou  didst  humble  thyself  in  our  presence. 
Thou  didst  almost  wound  our  reverence  for  thee. 

But  who  could,  like  thee,  humble  himself  with  such 
pride  ?  That  uplifteth  even  us  ;  a  refreshment  is  it 
unto  our  eyes  and  hearts. 

To  behold  this  alone,  we  would  gladly  ascend 
higher  mounts  than  this  mount  is.  For  we  have  come 
as  eager  sight-seers,  we  longed  to  see  what  maketh 
dim  eyes  bright. 

And  behold,  all  our  crying  for  help  is  past.  Our 
sense  and  heart  stand  open  and  are  enraptured.  Little 
is  lacking  for  our  courage  to  become  wanton. 

Nothing  more  agreeable,  O  Zarathustra,  groweth  on 
earth  than  a  high,  strong  will.  It  is  the  most  beautiful 
product  of  earth.  A  whole  landscape  is  refreshed  by 
one  tree  like  that. 

With  the  pine,  O  Zarathustra,  I  compare  him  who 
groweth  up  like  thee  :  tall,  silent,  hard,  alone,  of  the 
best  and  most  flexible  wood,  magnificent — 

And  who  at  last  graspeth  with  strong,  green 
boughs  after  his  own  dominion,  asking  strong  questions 
in  presence  of  winds  and  thunderstorms,  and  whatever 
is  at  home  on  heights — 

And  who  giveth  stronger  answers,  a  commander, 
a  victorious  one  !  Oh !  who  would  not  ascend  high 
mounts  in  order  to  see  such  products  ? 



In  thy  tree,  O  Zarathustra,  even  the  gloomy  one, 
the  ill-constituted  one,  rejoiceth;  at  sight  of  thee  even 
the  restless  one  becometh  sure  and  healeth  his  heart. 
And,  verily,  unto  thy  mount  and  thy  tree  this  day 
many  eyes  direct  themselves ;  a  great  longing  hath 
arisen,  and  many  folk  learned  to  ask  :  '  Who  is  Zara- 
thustra ? ' 

And  they  into  whose  ear  thou  hast  ever  dropped 
thy  song  and  thy  honey,  all  the  hidden,  the  hermits, 
and  hermits  in  pairs,  spake  all  at  once  unto  their 
hearts  thus : 

'  Liveth  Zarathustra  still  ?  It  is  no  longer  worth 
while  to  live.  Everything  is  equal,  everything  is  in 
vain.  If  that  is  to  be  not  so,  we  must  live  with  Zara- 
thustra ! 

Why  cometh  not  he  who  hath  announced  himself 
so  long  ? '  thus  many  ask.  '  Did  loneliness  devour 
him  ?  Or  peradventure  we  meant  to  come  unto  him  ? ' 
Now  it  cometh  to  pass  that  loneliness  itself  waxeth 
mellow  and  breaketh  like  a  grave,  which  breaketh  and 
can  no  longer  keep  its  dead.  Everywhere  one  seeth 
risen  ones. 

Now  rise  and  rise  the  waves  around  thy  mount, 
O  Zarathustra !  And  however  high  be  thy  height,  many 
must  ascend  unto  thee.  Thy  boat  shall  not  long  sit  on 
the  dry  ground  ! 

And  that  we  despairers  have  now  come  into  thy 
cave,  and  already  despair  no  more — it  is  merely  a 


sign  and  omen  that  better  ones  are  on  the  way  unto 

For  itself  is  on  the  way  unto  thee,  the  last  relic 
of  God  among  men,  i.  e.,  all  the  men  of  the  great 
longing,  of  the  great  loathing,  of  the  great  satiety- 
All  those  who  do  not  wish  to  live,  unless  they 
learn  to  hope  again  ;  unless  they  learn  from  thee,  O 
Zarathustra,  the  great  hope  ! " 

Thus  spake  the  king  on  the  right,  and  seized  Zara- 
thustra's  hand  in  order  to  kiss  it.  But  Zarathustra 
hindered  his  doing  reverence  and  stepped  back  terri- 
fied, as  silent  and  suddenly  as  though  he  fled  into  far 
distances.  But  in  a  little  while  he  was  once  more 
with  his  guests,  gazed  at  them  with  bright  questioning 
eyes,  and  said  : 

"  My  guests,  ye  higher  men,  I  will  speak  in  German 
and  clearly  unto  you.  Not  for  you  have  I  waited 
here  in  these  mounts." 

(" '  In  German  and  clearly  ? '  God-a-mercy !  "  said  then 
the  king  on  the  left,  secretly.  "  One  seeth  that  he 
knoweth  not  the  dear  Germans,  this  sage  from  the  East ! 

But  he  meaneth  '  in  German  and  coarsely.'  Well ! 
that  is  nowadays  not  quite  the  worst  taste  ! ") 

"Verily,  all  of  you  may  be  higher  men,"  continued 
Zarathustra.  "  But  for  me,  ye  are  not  high  and  strong 

For  me,  that  is  to  say,  for  the  inexorable  which 
is  now  silent  in  me,  but  will  not  always  be  silent. 



And  if  ye  belong  -unto  me,  ye  do  so  not  as  my 
right  arm  doth. 

For  whoever  standeth  himself  on  sick  and  weak 
legs,  like  you,  wisheth  above  all  (whether  he  knoweth 
it  or  hideth  it  from  himself)  to  be  spared. 

But  mine  arms  and  my  legs  I  spare  not,  my 
"warriors  I  spare  not.  How  could  ye  be  fit  for  my 
warfare  ? 

By  you  I  should  spoil  every  victory  of  mine. 
And  many  a  one  of  you  would  fall  unto  the  ground 
on  hearing  the  loud  noise  of  my  drums. 

Besides  ye  are  not  beautiful  and  well-born  enough 
for  me.  I  need  pure,  smooth  mirrors  for  my  doctrines. 
On  your  surface  even  mine  own  image  is  distorted. 

Your  shoulders  are  pressed  by  many  a  burden, 
many  a  memory.  Many  an  evil  dwarf  squatteth  in 
your  corners.  There  is  hidden  mob  within  even 

And  though  ye  be  high  and  of  a  higher  tribe, 
many  things  in  you  are  crooked  and  misshapen.  There 
is  no  blacksmith  in  the  world  to  hammer  you  into 
shape  and  straightness. 

Ye  are  only  bridges.  Would  that  higher  ones 
would  stride  over  you  unto  the  other  side  !  Ye  signify 
stairs.  Then  be  not  angry  with  him  who  riseth  above 
you  unto  his  own  height ! 

From  your  seed  one  day  there  may  spring  unto 
me  a  genuine  son  and  perfect  heir.  But  that  is  remote. 


Ye  yourselves  are  not  those  unto  whom  belong  mine 
heirship  and  name. 

Not  for  you  wait  I  in  these  mounts ;  not  with 
you  am  I  allowed  to  step  down  for  the  last  tune.  Ye 
have  come  unto  me  merely  as  omens,  that  higher  ones 
are  on  the  way  unto  me. 

Not  the  men  of  the  great  longing,  of  the  great 
loathing,  of  the  great  satiety,  and  what  you  called  the 
relic  of  God. 

Nay  !  Nay  !  Three  times  Nay  !  For  others  I  wait 
here  in  these  mounts,  and  will  not  lift  my  feet  to 
depart  without  them. 

I  wait  for  higher  ones,  stronger  ones,  more  victori- 
ous ones,  more  cheerful  ones,  such  as  are  built  square 
in  body  and  soul.  Laughing  lions  must  come  ! 

O  my  friends  and  guests,  ye  strange  ones!  Heard 
ye  nothing  of  my  children  ?  And  that  they  are  on 
the  way  unto  me  ? 

Speak,  speak  of  my  gardens,  of  my  blissful  islands, 
of  my  new  beautiful  kin.  Why  speak  ye  not  of  them 
unto  me  ? 

This  guest-gift  I  request  from  your  love,  that  ye 
speak  of  my  children.  Therefore  am  I  rich,  there- 
fore become  I  poor.  What  have  I  not  given  away  ? 

What  would  I  not  give  away,  in  order  to  have 
one  thing  :  these  children,  this  living  plantation,  these 
trees  of  life  of  my  will  and  of  my  highest  hope  !" 


Thus  spake  Zarathustra  and  suddenly  stopped  in 
his  speech.  For  he  was  seized  by  his  longing,  and  he 
closed  his  eyes  and  mouth  against  the  movement  of 
his  heart.  And  all  his  guests  were  silent  also  and 
stood  still  and  confounded.  Only  the  old  fortune-teller 
made  signs  with  hands,  and  gestures. 


For  at  that  point  the  fortune-teller  interrupted  the 
salutation  between  Zarathustra  and  his  guests.  He 
pressed  forward  like  one  who  hath  no  time  to  lose, 
seized  Zarathustra's  hand,  and  cried :  "  But,  Zara- 
thustra ! 

'  One  thing  is  more  necessary  than  another : '  thus 
thou  thyself  sayest.  Go  to  !  One  thing  is  now  more 
necessary  for  me  than  any  other. 

A  word  at  the  proper  time  :  didst  thou  not  invite 
me  to  a  meal?  And  here  are  many  who  have  made 
long  journeys.  I  suppose  thou  meanest  not  to  feed 
us  with  speeches  merely  ? 

Besides  all  of  you  have  thought  far  too  much 
for  my  taste  about  dying  of  cold,  by  drowning,  by 
suffocation,  and  about  other  sorts  of  bodily  danger.  But 
no  one  thought  of  my  sort  of  danger,  i.  e.,  of  dying 
of  hunger." 

(Thus  spake  the  fortune-teller.  But  when  Zara- 
thustra's animals  heard  these  words,  they  ran  away 


with  terror.  For  they  saw  that  all  they  had  brought  in 
during  the  day  would  not  be  sufficient  to  fill  even  this 
one  fortune-teller's  stomach.) 

"  Including  dying  from  thirst,"  the  fortune-teller 
went  on.  "And  although  I  hear  water  gurgle  here, 
like  speeches  of  wisdom,  i.  e.,  abounding  and  never 
tired — I  want  wine  ! 

Not  everyone  is  a  born  water-drinker  like  Zara- 
thustra.  Neither  is  water  good  for  weary  and  withered 
ones.  For  us  wine  is  proper.  Only  it  giveth  us  a 
sudden  vigour  and  health  there  and  then  ! " 

Whereupon,  when  the  fortune-teller  asked  for  wine, 
it  came  to  pass  that  the  king  on  the  left,  the  silent 
one;  for  once  had  a  chance  to  speak.  "  Wine,"  he  said, 
"  hath  been  provided  by  us,  by  myself  and  my  brother, 
the  king  on  the  right.  We  have  enough  of  wine,  a 
whole  ass-ful.  So  nothing  is  lacking  but  bread." 

"  Bread  ! "  answered  Zarathustra  laughing.  "  It  is 
just  bread  that  hermits  lack.  But  man  liveth  not  by 
bread  alone,  but  also  by  the  flesh  of  good  lambs,  of 
which  I  have  two. 

They  shall  be  killed  swiftly  and  cooked  spicily, 
with  sage.  That  is  my  taste.  Neither  are  roots  nor 
fruits  lacking.  There  is  enough  of  them  even  for  gor- 
mandisers  and  epicures.  Nor  are  nuts  lacking,  or  other 
riddles  to  crack. 

Thus  in  a  little  while  we  will  have  a  good 
meal.  But  he  who  meaneth  to  eat  with  us,  must 


also  put  his  hand  unto  the  work,  the  kings  included. 
For  in  Zarathustra's  home  even  a  king  may  be  a 

This  proposal  met  the  wishes  of  the  hearts  of  all ; 
only  that  the  voluntary  beggar  was  against  meat  and 
wine  and  spices. 

"  Now  listen  unto  this  glutton  Zarathustra ! "  he  said 
jesting.  "  Doth  one  go  into  caves  and  high  mounts 
to  have  such  meals  ? 

It  is  true,  I  understand  now  what  we  were  once 
taught  by  him  :  '  Let  petty  poverty  be  praised  ! '  And 
why  he  seeketh  to  abolish  beggars." 

"  Be  of  good  cheer,"  answered  Zarathustra,  "  as  I 
am  so.  Be  true  unto  thine  own  custom,  thou  excellent 
man,  grind  thy  corn,  drink  thy  water,  praise  thine 
own  cookery,  if  it  only  make  thee  gay  ! 

I  am  a  law  only  for  those  who  are  mine,  I  am 
not  a  law  for  all.  But  whoever  belongeth  unto  me, 
must  be  of  strong  bones,  and  of  light  feet,— 

Gay  for  warfare  and  festivals,  no  obscurantist,  no 
dreamer,  one  ready  for  what  is  hardest,  like  unto  his 
festival,  healthy  and  whole. 

What  is  best,  belongeth  unto  my  folk  and  myself. 
And  if  we  are  not  given  it,  we  take  it,  the  best 
food,  the  purest  sky,  the  strongest  thoughts,  the  most 
beautiful  women  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  But  the  king  on  the  right 
answered  : 


"  Strange !  Have  such  clever  things  ever  been  heard 
from  the  mouth  of  a  wise  man  ? 

And,  verily,  that  is  the  strangest  thing  in  a  wise 
man,  if  over  and  above  he  is  clever  and  not  an  ass." 

Thus  spake  the  king  on  the  right,  and  wondered. 
But  the  ass  spitefully  said  Hee-Haw  unto  his  speech. 
Thus  began  that  long  meal  which  is  called  "  The 
Supper"  in  history  books.  And  during  that  meal 
nothing  was  spoken  of  but  higher  man. 


"When,  for  the  first  time,  I  went  unto  men,  I 
committed  the  hermit  folly,  the  great  folly.  I  stood  in 
the  market-place. 

And  speaking  unto  all,  I  spake  unto  none.  But 
in  the  evening,  rope-dancers  were  my  companions, 
and  corpses  ;  and  I  myself  was  almost  a  corpse. 

But  with  the  new  morning  a  new  truth  came  unto 
me.  Then  I  learned  to  say  :  '  What  matter  for  me 
market  and  mob,  and  mob's  noise  and  the  mob's  long 
ears  ! ' 

Ye  higher  men,  learn  this  from  me.  In  the  market 
no  one  believeth  in  higher  men.  And  if  ye  are  going 
to  speak  there,  it  is  well !  But  the  mob  blink  :  '  We 
are  all  equal ! ' 

'Ye  higher  men,' — thus  the  mob  blink — 'there  are 
no  higher  men ;  we  are  all  equal ;  man  is  man ;  in  the 
presence  of  God  we  are  all  equal ! ' 

In  the  presence  of  God  !  But  now  that  God  hath 
died.  But  in  the  presence  of  the  mob  we  do  not  wish 
to  be  equal.  Ye  higher  men,  depart  from  the  market ! 


In  the  presence  of  God  !  But  now  hath  that  God 
died !  Ye  higher  men,  this  God  hath  been  your 
greatest  danger. 

Only  since  he  hath  lain  in  the  grave,  ye  have 
arisen.  Now  only  cometh  the  great  noon,  now  only 
higher  man  becometh  master  ! 

Understood  ye  this  word,  O  my  brethren  ?  Ye 
are  terrified.  Do  your  hearts  grow  giddy  ?  Yawneth 
here  an  abyss  for  you  ?  Barketh  unto  you  here  the 
hell-dog  ? 

Up  !  Up  !  Ye  higher  men  !  It  is  only  now  that 
the  mount  of  man's  future  giveth  birth  unto  any- 
thing. God  hath  died.  Now  we  wish  beyond-man 
to  live. 


The  most  careful  ask  to-day  :  '  How  is  man  pre- 
served ? '  But  Zarathustra  asketh  as  the  only  and  first 
one  :  '  How  is  man  surpassed  ?  ' 

Beyond-man  is  my  care ;  with  me,  he  and  not 
man  is  the  first  and  only  thing.  Not  the  neighbour, 
not  the  poorest  one,  not  the  greatest  sufferer,  not  the 
best  one. 

O  my  brethren,  what  I  can  love  in  man,  is  that  he 
is  a  transition  and  a  destruction.  And  even  in  you 
there  are  many  things  which  make  me  love  and  hope. 


That  ye  had  scorn,  ye  higher  men,  that  maketh 
me  hope.  For  the  great  scorners  are  the  great  re- 

That  ye  despaired,  therein  is  much  to  honour.  For 
ye  did  not  learn  how  to  give  yourselves  up  ;  ye  did 
not  learn  petty  policies. 

For  to-day  the  petty  folk  have  become  master. 
They  all  preach  submission  and  resignation  and  policy 
and  diligence  and  regard  and  the  long  etcetera  of 
petty  virtues. 

Whatever  is  of  the  women's  tribe,  whatever  de- 
scendeth  from  the  slaves'  tribe,  and  especially  from  the 
mish-mash  of  the  mob — these  will  now  become  master 
of  all  human  fate.  Oh,  loathing  !  loathing  !  loathing  ! 

These  ask,  and  ask,  and  weary  not  with  asking  : 
'  How  doth  man  preserve  himself  best,  longest  and 
most  agreeably  ? '  Thereby  they  are  the  masters  of 

Surpass  these  masters  of  to-day,  O  my  brethren, 
— the  petty  folk.  They  are  the  greatest  danger  for 
beyond-man  ! 

Surpass,  ye  higher  men,  the  petty  virtues,  the 
petty  policies,  the  grains-of-sand-regards,  the  swarming 
of  ants,  the  miserable  ease,  the  'happiness  of  the 
greatest  number  ! ' 

And  rather  despair  than  give  in  !  And,  verily,  I 
love  you  for  the  very  reason  that  ye  know  not  how 
to  live  to-day,  ye  higher  men  !  For  thus  ye  live  best  ! 



Have  ye  courage,  O  my  brethren  ?  Are  ye  stout- 
hearted ?  I  do  not  mean  courage  in  the  presence  ot 
witnesses,  but  the  courage  of  hermits  and  eagles,  on 
which  not  even  a  God  looketh  any  more. 

Cold  souls,  mules,  blind  folk,  drunk  folk  I  do  not 
call  stout-hearted.  Courage  hath  he  who  knoweth  fear 
but  subdueth  fear  ;  he  who  seeth  the  abyss,  but  with 

He  who  seeth  the  abyss,  but  with  an  eagle's  eyes  ; 
he  who  graspeth  the  abyss  with  an  eagle's  claws  ;  he 
hath  courage. 


'Man  is  evil' — thus  all  the  wisest  men  said  unto 
me,  as  a  comfort.  Alas,  if  that  be  still  true  to-day  ! 
For  what  is  evil,  is  man's  best  power. 

'  Man  must  become  better  and  more  evil,' — thus  / 
teach.  The  evilest  is  necessary  for  the  best  of  beyond- 

It  may  have  been  well  for  that  petty  folk's  preacher 
to  suffer  and  bear  the  burden  of  man's  sin.  But  I 
rejoice  in  the  great  sin  as  in  my  great  comfort. 

But  such  things  are  not  said  for  long  ears.  Every 
word  hath  not  its  proper  place  in  every  mouth.  These 
are  fine,  remote  things.  For  them  sheep's  claws  must 
not  grasp  ! 


Ye  higher  men,  think  ye  that  I  live  to  make  well 
what  ye  made  badly  ? 

Or  think  ye  that  I  meant  to  pillow  you  sufferers 
more  comfortably  for  the  future  ?  Or  to  show  new 
and  easier  footpaths  unto  you  restless,  gone  astray 
on  roads  and  mountains  ? 

Nay !  Nay !  Three  times  Nay  !  Ever  more,  ever 
better  ones  of  your  tribe  shall  perish.  For  ye  shall 
have  ever  a  worse  and  harder  life.  Only  thus — 

Only  thus  man  groweth  up  unto  that  height  where 
the  lightning  striketh  and  breaketh  him  ;  high  enough 
for  the  lightning  ! 

Towards  few  things,  towards  long  things,  towards 
remote  things,  my  mind  and  my  longing  turn.  What 
concern  hath  your  petty,  manifold  short  misery  for 
me  ! 

Ye  do  not  yet  suffer  enough  !  For  ye  suffer  from 
yourselves,  ye  have  never  yet  suffered  from  man.  Ye 
would  lie,  did  ye  say  otherwise  !  None  of  you  suffereth 
from  what  /  have  suffered. 


It  is  not  enough  for  me,  that  the  lightning  causeth 
no  more  damage.  I  do  not  want  to  conduct  it  into 
the  ground.  It  shall  learn  to  work  for  me. 


My  wisdom  hath  for  long  gathered  like  a  cloud  ; 
it  becometh  stiller  and  darker.  So  doth  every  wisdom 
that  shall  one  day  give  birth  unto  lightnings. 

Unto  these  men  of  to-day  I  do  not  seek  to  be  a 
light,  nor  to  be  called  a  light  by  them.  Them  I  will 
blind.  O  lightning  of  my  wisdom !  Gouge  their 
eyes  out ! 

Will  nothing  beyond  your  capacity.  There  is  an 
evil  falsehood  in  such  as  will  beyond  their  capa- 

In  particular  if  they  will  great  things  !  For  they 
cause  mistrust  towards  great  things,  these  fine  false 
coiners  and  actors — 

Until  at  last  they  grow  false  to  themselves,  have 
squinting  eyes,  and  are  a  whited  worm-eatenness, 
hidden  under  strong  words,  under  show-off-virtues, 
under  shining  false  actions. 

Take  great  care  with  such,  ye  higher  men  !  For 
nothing  is  to-day  regarded  by  me  as  more  valuable 
and  rare  than  honesty. 

Is  this  To-day  not  of  the  mob  ?  But  the  mob  know 
not  what  is  great,  small,  straight,  and  honest.  They 
are  innocently  crooked,  they  always  lie. 



Have  to-day  a  good  mistrust,  ye  higher  men,  ye 
courageous  !  Ye  with  open  hearts  !  And  keep  your 
reasons  secret !  For  to-day  is  of  the  mob. 

But  what  the  mob  did  not  learn  to  believe  without 
reason,  who  could  upset  that  for  them  by  reason  ? 

In  the  market-place  one  convinceth  by  gestures. 
But  reasons  make  the  mob  mistrustful. 

And  when  in  that  field  truth  hath  once  won  a 
victory,  ask  yourselves  with  good  mistrust :  '  What 
powerful  error  hath  fought  the  battle  for  it  ? ' 

Take  care  also  of  scholars  !  They  hate  you.  For 
they  are  sterile !  They  have  cold,  dried-out  eyes. 
Before  them  every  bird  lieth  unfeathered. 

Such  folk  boast  that  they  do  not  lie.  But  impotence 
to  lie  is  by  no  means  love  unto  truth.  Take  care  ! 

Freedom  from  fever  is  by  no  means  perception  !  I 
do  not  credit  anything  from  minds  chilled  through  and 
through.  He  who  cannot  lie,  knoweth  not  what 
truth  is. 


If  ye  want  to  rise  high,  use  your  own  legs  !  Do 
not  let  yourselves  be  carried  upwards,  sit  not  down 
on  strange  backs  and  heads  ! 

But  thou  didst  mount  a  horse  ?  Now  thou  swiftly 
ridest  up  unto  thy  goal  ?  Up  !  my  friend.  But  thy 
lame  leg  sitteth  with  thee  on  horseback  ! 


When  thou  hast  reached  thy  goal ;  when  thou 
alightest  from  thy  horse  ;  exactly  on  thy  height,  thou 
higher  man  ;  thou  wilt  stumble  ! 


Ye  creators,  ye  higher  men !  One  is  pregnant 
only  of  one's  own  child. 

Let  nothing  be  said  in  your  presence,  be  not  per- 
suaded by  anything  !  Who  then  is  your  neighbour  ? 
And  even  suppose  ye  act  'for  the  neighbour,' — ye 
do  not  create  for  him  ! 

Unlearn  this  '  for,'  I  pray,  ye  creators  !  Your  very 
virtue  wanteth  you  to  do  nothing  with  'for'  and  'for 
the  sake  of  and  'because.'  To  protect  yourselves 
from  these  deceitful  little  words,  ye  shall  glue  up 
your  ear. 

That  'for  the  neighbour'  is  the  virtue  merely  of 
the  petty  folk.  They  say  :  '  like  and  like '  and  '  hand 
washeth  hand.'  They  have  neither  the  right  nor  the 
power  for  your  self-interest ! 

In  your  self-interest,  ye  creators,  is  the  caution 
and  providence  of  the  child-bearing  ones  !  What  no 
one  hath  ever  seen  with  his  eyes,  the  fruit,  is  protected 
and  spared  and  nourished  with  all  your  love. 

Where  all  your  love  is,  with  your  child,  there  also 
is  all  your  virtue !  Your  work,  your  will  is  your 
.neighbour.'  Allow  not  yourselves  to  be  talked  into 
false  values  ! 



Ye  creators,  ye  higher  men  !  He  who  must  give 
birth  is  ill.  But  he  who  hath  given  birth  is  impure. 

Ask  women !  One  giveth  not  birth  because  the 
giving  of  birth  causeth  pleasure.  The  pain  causeth 
hens  and  poets  to  cackle. 

Ye  creators,  in  you  is  much  impure.  The  reason 
is  that  ye  were  compelled  to  be  mothers. 

A  new  child  !  Oh,  how  much  new  dirt  hath  with 
it  been  born  into  the  world  !  Go  unto  one  side  !  He 
who  hath  given  birth  shall  wash  his  soul  pure  ! 


Be  not  virtuous  beyond  your  ability  !  And  demand 
nothing  from  yourselves  contrary  unto  probability  ! 

Walk  in  the  footsteps  in  which  your  fathers'  virtue 
hath  gone  !  How  could  ye  rise  high,  if  your  fathers' 
will  riseth  not  with  you  ? 

But  he  who  desireth  to  be  a  firstling,  may  see  unto 
it,  that  he  may  not  become  a  lastling  also  !  And 
where  the  vices  of  your  fathers  are,  therein  ye  shall 
not  strive  to  be  saints. 

He  whose  fathers  liked  women  and  strong  wines 
and  wild  boars — what,  if  hfe  were  to  demand  chastity 
of  himself? 



It  would  be  a  folly  !  It  is  much,  verily,  methinketh, 
for  such  an  one,  if  he  be  the  husband  of  one,  or  two, 
or  three  women. 

And  if  he  would  found  monasteries  and  write  over 
their  gates  :  '  The  way  unto  what  is  holy,'  —  yet  I 
would  say  :  '  Wherefore  ?  It  is  a  new  folly  ! 

He  hath  founded  for  himself  a  penitentiary  and 
refuge.  Much  good  may  it  do  him  !  But  I  do  not 
believe  in  it.' 

In  loneliness  groweth  whatever  is  brought  by  one 
into  it,  including  the  inner  beast  also.  On  account 
of  that,  many  are  counselled  against  loneliness  ! 

Hath  there  ever  been  anything  dirtier  on  earth 
than  the  saints  of  the  desert  ?  Round  them  not  only 
the  devil  was  set  free,  but  the  swine  also. 

Shy,  ashamed,  clumsy,  like  the  tiger  foiled  in  his 
leap  —  thus,  ye  higher  men,  I  have  seen  you  often  steal 
aside.  A  cast  of  yours  had  failed. 

But  what  matter  ye  dice-players  ?  Ye  learned  not 
play  and  mockery,  as  one  must  play  and  mock  !  Sit 
we  not  ever  at  a  great  table  of  mocking  and  playing  ? 

And  if  ye  have  failed  in  great  things,  are  ye,  for 
that  reason,  yourselves  a  failure  ?  But  if  man  is  a 
failure  —  up  !  up  ! 



The  higher  its  kin  is,  the  seldomer  doth  a  thing 
succeed.  Ye  higher  men  here,  are  ye  not  all  failures  ? 

Be  of  good  cheer !  What  matter  ?  How  many 
things  are  still  possible  !  Learn  to  laugh  at  your- 
selves, as  one  must  laugh  ! 

What  wonder  that  ye  have  failed  and  half-failed, 
ye  half-broken  ones  !  In  yourselves,  doth  not  man's 
future  throng  and  push  ? 

Man's  remotest,  deepest,  star-highest  essence,  his 
immense  power — do  they  not  all  seethe  against  each 
other  in  your  pot  ? 

What  wonder  that  many  a  pot  breaketh  !  Learn 
to  laugh  at  each  other,  as  one  must  laugh  !  Ye  higher 
men,  how  many  things  are  still  possible  ! 

And,  verily  !  how  many  things  have  already  suc- 
ceeded. How  rich  is  this  earth  in  small,  good,  perfect 
things,  in  well-constituted  things  ! 

Put  small,  good,  perfect  things  round  yourselves, 
ye  higher  men  !  Their  golden  ripeness  healeth  the 
heart.  Perfect  things  teach  hope. 


What  hath  hitherto  been  the  greatest  sin  on 
earth  ?  Was  it  the  word  of  him  who  said  :  '  Woe 
unto  those  who  laugh  here  ? ' 


Did  he  himself  find  no  reasons  for  laughing  on 
earth  ?  If  so,  he  sought  but  ill.  A  child  even  findeth 
reasons  here. 

He  did  not  love  enough.  Otherwise  he  would 
have  loved  us  also,  the  laughers  !  But  he  hated  and 
mocked  at  us.  Howling  and  gnashing  of  teeth  we  were 
promised  by  him. 

Must  one  curse  outright,  where  one  doth  not  love  ? 
That,  meseemeth,  is  bad  taste.  But  thus  he  did,  this 
unconditioned  one.  He  sprang  from  the  mob. 

And  he  himself  merely  loved  not  enough.  Other- 
wise he  would  have  been  less  angry  because  he  was 
not  loved.  All  great  love  vuanteth  not  love,  it  want- 
eth  more. 

Go  out  of  the  way  of  all  such  unconditioned  ones  ! 
That  is  a  poor,  sick  tribe,  a  mob-tribe.  They  look 
with  illwill  on  this  life  ;  they  have  the  evil  eye  for 
this  earth. 

Go  out  of  the  way  of  all  such  unconditioned  ones  ! 
They  have  heavy  feet  and  sultry  hearts.  They  know 
not  how  to  dance.  How  could  earth  be  light  unto 
such  ! 

Crookedly  all  good  things  draw  nigh  unto  their 
goal.  Like  cats  they  arch  their  backs,  they  purr  in- 
side with  their  near  happiness.  All  good  things  laugh. 

The   step  betrayeth  whether    one  walketh   already 


on  his  own  road.  See  me  walk  !  But  whoever  draw- 
eth  nigh  unto  his  goal,  danceth. 

And,  verily,  I  have  not  become  a  statue.  Not  yet  I 
stand,  benumbed,  blunt,  like  a  stone,  as  a  pillar.  I 
love  quick  running. 

And  although  earth  hath  moors  and  thick  affliction, 
he  who  hath  light  feet  runneth  even  over  mud,  and 
danceth  as  on  wells-wept  ice. 

Raise  your  hearts,  my  brethren,  high,  higher  !  And 
forget  not  your  legs  !  Raise  also  your  legs,  ye  good 
dancers  !  Moreover  it  is  better  still  if  ye  stand  on 
your  heads ! 


This  crown  of  the  laugher,  the  crown  of  rose- 
wreaths — I  myself  have  put  this  crown  on  my  head  ; 
I  myself  have  proclaimed  my  laughter  holy.  No  other 
one  I  found  to-day  strong  enough  for  that. 

Zarathustra,  the  dancer,  Zarathustra,  the  light  one 
who  waveth  with  his  wings,  a  preparer  of  flight, 
waving  unto  all  birds,  prepared  and  ready,  a  blissful- 
frivolous  one  ; 

Zarathustra,  the  fortune-teller,  Zarathustra,  the  true 
laugher,  not  impatient,  not  unconditioned  ;  one  who 
loveth  leaps  and  leaps  aside — I  myself  have  put  this 
crown  on  my  head  ! 



Raise  your  hearts,  my  brethren,  high !  higher ! 
And  forget  not  your  legs  !  Raise  also  your  legs,  ye 
good  dancers.  Moreover  it  is  better  still  if  ye  stand 
on  your  heads  ! 

There  are  heavy  animals  in  happiness,  as  in  other 
things.  There  are  club-feet  from  the  beginning.  Queerly 
they  exert  themselves  like  an  elephant  which  exerteth 
itself  to  stand  on  its  head. 

But  it  is  better  still  to  be  foolish  with  happiness 
than  foolish  with  misfortune;  better  to  dance  clumsily 
than  to  walk  lame.  Learn  my  wisdom  from  me,  I 
pray.  But  even  the  worst  thing  hath  two  good  re- 
verse sides. 

Even  the  worst  thing  hath  good  dancing-legs. 
Learn,  I  pray,  ye  higher  men,  how  to  put  yourselves 
on  your  right  legs  ! 

Unlearn,  I  pray,  all  the  horn-blowing  of  affliction, 
and  all  mob-sadness  !  Oh,  how  sad  seem  unto  me 
to-day  the  mob's  buffoons  !  But  to-day  is  of  the  mob. 


Do  like  the  wind  when  it  rusheth  forth  from  its 
mountain  caves.  Unto  its  own  pipe  it  will  dance.  The 
seas  tremble  and  leap  beneath  its  footsteps. 


Praised  be  that  good  unruly  spirit  which  giveth 
wings  unto  asses ;  which  milketh  lionesses ;  which  com- 
eth  like  a  stormblast  unto  all  To-day  and  all  mob; 

Which  is  an  enemy  unto  all  heads  of  thistles,  and 
minds  that  pry  into  things,  and  unto  all  withered  leaves 
and  tares  !  Praised  be  that  wild,  good,  free  spirit  of 
the  storm  which  danceth  on  moors  and  afflictions  as 
on  meadows  ; 

Which  hateth  the  dwindling  dogs  of  the  mob,  and 
all  the  ill-constituted  gloomy  brood  !  Praised  be  this 
spirit  of  all  free  spirits,  the  laughing  storm  which 
bloweth  dust  into  the  eyes  of  all  black-sighted,  sup- 
purative  ones  ! 

Ye  higher  men,  what  is  worst  in  you  is,  that 
none  of  you  hath  learnt  to  dance,  as  one  must  dance 
— to  dance  beyond  yourselves  !  What  matter  that  ye 
are  failures  ? 

How  many  things  are  still  possible !  Learn,  I 
pray,  to  laugh  beyond  yourselves  !  Raise  your  hearts, 
ye  good  dancers,  high  !  higher  !  And  forget  not  the 
good  laughter  ! 

This  crown  of  the  laugher,  this  crown  of  rose- 
wreaths — unto  you,  my  brethren,  I  throw  this  crown  ! 
The  laughter  I  have  proclaimed  holy.  Ye  higher 
men,  learn  how  to  laugh  ! " 


When  making  these  speeches,  Zarathustra  stood 
close  unto  the  entrance  of  his  cave.  But  when  utter- 
ing the  last  words,  he  escaped  from  his  guests  and  fled 
for  a  short  while  into  the  open  air. 

"  Oh,  pure  odours  round  me  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  Oh, 
blessed  stillness  round  me !  But  where  are  mine 
animals  ?  Come  nigh,  come  nigh,  mine  eagle  and  my 
serpent ! 

Tell  me,  mine  animals.  These  higher  men  altogether 
— think  ye,  do  they  not  smell  well  ?  Oh,  pure  odours 
round  me  !  Now  only  I  know  and  feel  how  I  love 
you,  mine  animals  ! " 

And  Zarathustra  repeated  :  "  I  love  you,  mine  ani- 
mals ! "  But  the  eagle  and  the  serpent  pressed  round 
him,  when  he  spake  these  words,  and  looked  up  unto 
him.  In  this  way  they  were  all  three  together  at 
peace,  and  snuffed  and  drew  in  the  good  air  together. 
For  outside  the  air  was  better  than  among  the  higher 


But  scarce  had  Zarathustra  left  his  cave,  when  the 
old  wizard  got  up,  looked  round  cunningly  and  said  : 
"  He  is  gone  out ! 

And  straightway,  ye  higher  men,  (let  me  like  him 
tickle  you  with  this  name  of  praise  and  flattery), — 
straightway  mine  evil  spirit  of  deceitfulness  and  en- 
chantment attacketh  me,  my  melancholy  devil ; 

Who  is  a  fiend  from  the  bottom  unto  this  Zara- 
thustra. Forgive  him  !  Now  he  will  practise  magic  in 
your  presence  ;  it  is  exactly  his  hour.  In  vain  I  struggle 
with  this  evil  spirit. 

Unto  all  of  you,  whatever  honours  ye  may  attribute 
unto  yourselves  in  words,  whether  ye  call  yourselves 
'  the  free  spirits,'  or  '  the  truthful,'  or  '  the  penitent  of 
spirit,'  or  '  the  freed  from  fetters '  or  '  the  great  longers — ' 

Unto  all  of  you  who,  like  myself,  suffer  from  the 
great  loathing,  for  whom  the  old  God  hath  died  and 
no  new  God  yet  lieth  in  cradles  and  napkins — unto 
all  of  you  is  mine  evil  spirit  and  magic  devil  friendly. 
,  I  know  you,  ye  higher  men ;  I  know  him.  I  also 
know  that  fiend  whom  I  love  involuntarily,  this 
Zarathustra.  He  himself  seemeth  often  unto  me  to  be 
like  a  beautiful  mask  of  a  saint — 

Like  a  new  strange  masquerade  in  which  mine 
evil  spirit,  the  melancholy  devil,  is  pleased.  I  love 


Zarathustra — thus .  it  seemeth  often  unto  me — for  the 
sake  of  mine  evil  spirit. 

But  even  now  he  attacketh  me  and  constraineth 
me,  this  spirit  of  melancholy,  this  devil  of  the  evening. 
And,  verily,  ye  higher  men,  he  longeth — 

Open  your  eyes  ! — he  longeth  to  appear  naked, 
whether  masculine,  or  feminine,  I  know  not  yet.  But 
he  cometh,  he  constraineth  me,  alas !  Open  your 
senses  ! 

The  sound  of  the  day  dieth  away.  Unto  all  things. 
now  cometh  the  evening,  even  unto  the  best  things. 
Listen  now  and  look,  ye  higher  men,  what  devil  he 
is,  this  spirit  of  evening  melancholy,  whether  man  or 
woman  ! " 

Thus  spake  the  old  wizard,  looked  round  cunningly, 
and  then  seized  his  harp.  • 


"When  the  air  hath  become  clear, 
When  the  comfort  of  the  dew 
Gusheth  down  upon  earth, 
Unseen,  unheard, 
(For  tender  shoes  are  worn 
By  the  dew,  the  comforter,  as  by  all  who  shed  mild 


Rememberest  thou,  then,  rememberest  thou,   O  hot 


How  once  thou  thirstedst 

For  heavenly  tears  and  the  dropping  of  dew, 

How  thou  thirstedst,  scorched  and  weary, 

Whilst  on  yellow  grass-paths 

Wicked  evening-like  sun-glances 

Ran  round  thee  through  black  trees, 

Blinding  malicious  glances  of  sun-glow  ? 

'The  suitor  of  truth  ?    Thou?''  Thus  they  mocked. 
'  Nay  !  Merely  a  poet ! ' 

An  animal,  a  cunning,  preying,  stealing  one, 

Which  must  lie, 

Which  must  lie,  consciously,  voluntarily, 

Longing  for  prey, 

Disguised  in  many  colours, 

A  mask  unto  itself, 

A  prey  unto  itself. 

That — the  suitor  of  truth  ? 

Only  a  fool !  a  poet ! 

Only  a  speaker  in  many  colours, 

Speaking  in  many  colours  out  of  fools'  masks, 

Stalking  about  on  deceitful  word-bridges, 

On  deceitful  rain-bows, 

Between  false  heavens 

Wandering,  stealing  about — 

Only  a  fool !  a  poet ! 

That — the  suitor  of  truth  ? 
Not  still,  numb,  smooth,  cold, 


Not  become  an  .image, 
A  statue  of  a  God  ; 
Not  set  up  in  front  of  temples, 
A  God's  usher. 

Nay  !  an  enemy  unto  such  statues  of  virtue, 
More  at  home  in  any  wilderness  than  in  temples, 
Full  of  a  cat's  wantonness, 
Leaping  through  every  window, 
Swiftly,  into  every  chance, 
Led  by  its  scent  into  every  primeval  forest, 
In  order  to  roam  about  in  primeval  forests, 
Among  many-coloured  shaggy  beasts  of  prey, 
Sinfully-healthy  and  beautiful  and  many-coloured, 
To  run  about  with  longing  lips, 
Blissfully-mocking,  blissfully-hellish,  blissfully-blood- 
Preying,  stealing,  lying. 

Or  like  the  eagle  that  long, 

Long  gazeth  benumbed  into  abysses, 

Into  its  own  abysses  ! 

Oh,  how  they  here  wriggle  downwards, 

Down,  down 

Into  ever  deeper  depths  ! 



With  straight  flight, 

With  a  sharp  attack, 


Swoop  down  on  lambs, 

Head  foremost,  greedy, 

Longing  for  lambs, 

Angry  with  all  lamb-souls, 

In  sore  anger  with  whatever  gazeth 

Virtuous,  sheeplike,  with  curly  wool, 

Stupid  with  the  benevolence  of  lamb's  milk  ! 


Like  eagles,  like  panthers, 

Are  the  poet's  longings, 

Are  thy  longings  under  a  thousand  masks, 

Thou  fool !     Thou  poet ! 

Who  sawest  man 
As  a  God  and  a  sheep — 
To  tear  the  God  in  man, 
Like  the  sheep  in  man, 
And  to  laugh  in  tearing. 

That,  that  is  thy  bliss, 
A  panther's  and  an  eagle's  bliss, 
A  poet's  and  a  fool's  bliss  ! 
When  the  air  hath  become  clear, 
And  the  sickle  of  the  moon, 
Green  between  purple  reds 
And  envious  stealeth  along, 
An  enemy  unto  day, 
Sweeping  her  sickle  secretly 


Along  hammocks  of  roses, 

At  every  step,  until  they  sink, 

Sink  down,  pale,  down  into  the  night — 

Thus  I  once  fell  downwards, 

Out  of  mine  insanity  of  truth, 

Out  of  my  longing  of  the  day, 

Weary  of  the  day,  sick  from  the  light, 

Fell,    downwards,   towards  the    night,    towards    the 


Burnt  by,  and  thirsty  for 
One  truth. 

Rememberest  thou,  rememberest  thou,  hot  heart, 
How  then  thou  thirstedst  ? 

In  order  to  be  excluded 

From  all  truth  ! 

Only  a  fool  !  Only  a  poet  !  " 


Thus  sang  the  wizard.  And  all  who  were  there 
assembled  fell  unawares  like  birds  into  the  net  of 
his  cunning  and  melancholy  lust.  Only  the  con- 
scientious one  of  the  spirit  had  not  been  caught.  He 
quickly  took  the  harp  from  the  wizard,  crying  :  "Air ! 
Let  good  air  come  in !  Let  Zarathustra  come  in  ! 
Thou  makest  this  cave  sultry  and  poisonous,  thou  bad 
old  wizard  ! 

Thou  seducest,  thou  false  one,  thou  refined  one, 
unto  unknown  desires  and  wilderness.  And,  alas,  that 
folk  like  thee  should  make  much  trouble  and  many 
words  with  truth  ! 

Alas,  for  all  free  spirits,  who  are  not  on  their 
guard  against  such  wizards  !  Gone  is  their  freedom. 
Thou  teachest  and  thereby  allurest  back  into  prisons  ! 

Thou  old  melancholy  devil,  in  thy  wailing  soundeth 
an  alluring  pipe.  Thou  art  like  unto  such  as  with 
their  praise  of  chastity  secretly  invite  unto  lust ! " 

Thus  spake  the  conscientious  one.  But  the  old 
wizard  looked  round  him,  rejoicing  in  his  victory,  and 
swallowed  the  anger  caused  him  by  the  conscientious 



one.  "  Be  quiet ! "  he  said  with  modest  voice.  "  Good 
songs  want  good  echo.  After  good  songs  one  shall  be 
silent  long. 

Thus  do  all  these,  the  higher  men.  But  thou  seemest 
to  have  understood  little  of  my  song  ?  In  thee  is 
little  of  an  enchanting  spirit." 

"  Thou  praisest  me,"  answered  the  conscientious  one, 
"  by  separating  me  from  thee.  Go  to  !  But  ye  others, 
what  do  I  see  ?  Ye  all  still  sit  there  with  lustful  eyes. 

Ye  free  souls,  whither  is  your  freedom  gone ! 
Methinketh,  ye  are  almost  like  such  as  have  long 
looked  at  evil,  dancing,  naked  girls.  Your  souls  them- 
selves dance  ! 

In  you,  ye  higher  men,  there  must  be  more  of 
what  the  wizard  calleth  his  evil  spirit  of  enchantment 
and  deceit.  We  seem  to  be  very  different. 

And,  verily,  we  spake  and  thought  enough  together, 
before  Zarathustra  came  home  unto  his  cave,  to  enable 
me  to  know  :  we  are  different. 

We  seek  different  things,  even  up  here,  ye  and  I. 
For  I  seek  more  security.  Therefore  have  I  come  unto 
Zarathustra.  For  he  is  the  firmest  tower  and  will — 

To-day  when  everything  is  shaken,  when  the  whole 
earth  trembleth.  But,  when  I  see  the  eyes  ye  make, 
methinketh  almost,  ye  seek  more  insecurity, 

More  shuddering,  more  danger,  more  earthquake. 
Methinketh  almost,  ye  long  (forgive  my  haughtiness, 
ye  higher  men)— 


Ye  long  after  the  evilest,  most  dangerous  life,  that 
causeth  me  the  most  fear,  after  the  life  of  wild  beasts, 
after  forests,  caves,  steep  mountains  and  labyrinthine 

And  ye  are  not  pleased  best  by  those  who  lead 
you  out  of  a  danger,  but  by  those  who  lead  you 
away  from  all  paths,  by  seducers.  But  if  such  a 
longing  is  truth  in  you,  it  nevertheless  seemeth  unto 
me  impossible. 

For  fear — that  is  man's  hereditary  and  fundamental 
feeling.  By  fear  everything  is  explained,  original  sin 
and  original  virtue.  Out  of  fear  also  hath  grown  my 
virtue,  which  is  called  Science. 

For  the  fear  of  wild  beasts  hath  been  bred  in 
man  for  the  longest  time,  including  the  beast  he  con- 
taineth  and  feareth  in  himself.  Zarathustra  calleth  it 
'  the  beast  inside.' 

Such  long,  old  fear,  at  last  become  refined,  spiritual, 
intellectual,  to-day,  methinketh,  it  is  called  Science." 

Thus  spake  the  conscientious  one.  But  Zarathustra 
who  had  just  returned  into  his  cave  and  had  heard 
the  last  speech  and  guessed  its  sense,  threw  a  hand- 
ful of  roses  at  the  conscientious  one,  laughing  at  his 
"  truths."  "  What  ?  "  he  called.  "  What  did  I  hear  just 
now  ?  Verily,  methinketh,  thou  art  a  fool,  or  I  am 
one  myself.  And  thy  '  truth '  I  turn  upside  down  with 
one  blow,  and  that  quickly. 

For  fear    is    our    exception.      But    courage    and 



adventure,  and  the'  joy  of  what  is  uncertain,  what 
hath  never  been  dared — courage,  methinketh,  is  the 
whole  prehistoric  development  of  man. 

From  the  wildest,  most  courageous  beasts  he  hath, 
by  his  envy  and  his  preying,  won  all  their  virtues. 
Only  thus  hath  he  become  a  man. 

This  courage,  at  last  become  refined,  spiritual, 
intellectual,  this  human  courage  with  an  eagle's  wings 
and  a  serpent's  wisdom — it,  methinketh,  is  called  to- 
day— " 

"  Zarathustra  !  "  cried  all  who  sat  together  there, 
as  from  one  mouth,  making  a  great  laughter  withal. 
But  a  something  was  lifted  from  them  like  a  heavy 
cloud.  The  wizard  also  laughed  and  said  shrewdly  : 
"  Up !  He  is  gone,  mine  evil  spirit ! 

And  did  not  I  myself  warn  you  of  him,  when  I 
said  that  he  was  a  deceiver,  a  spirit  of  lying  and 
deceit  ? 

And  quite  especially,  if  he  show  himself  naked.  But 
are  his  intrigues  my  fault  ?  Did  /  create  him  and  the 
world  ? 

Up  !  Let  us  be  good  again  and  of  good  cheer  ! 
And  although  Zarathustra  gazeth  angrily,  look  at 
him  !  He  is  angry  with  me. 

Before  night  come,  he  will  once  more  learn  how 
to  love  and  praise  me.  He  cannot  live  long  without 
doing  such  follies. 

He  loveth  his  enemies.     This  art  he  knoweth  best 


of  all  whom  I  have  seen.    But  he  taketh  revenge  for 
that  on  his  friends  ! " 

Thus  spake  the  old  wizard,  and  the  higher  men 
applauded  him,  so  that  Zarathustra  went  about  and 
shook  hands  with  his  friends,  mischievously  and  lovingly, 
as  though  he  were  one  with  amends  to  make  unto 
everyone  for  something,  who  hath  to  obtain  forgive- 
ness from  all.  But  when  he  thus  doing  reached  once 
more  the  door  of  his  cave,  behold,  he  felt  again  a 
desire  for  the  good  ah*  out  there  and  for  his  animals, 
and  tried  to  steal  outside  again. 


"  Go  not  away  ! "  said  then  the  wanderer  who 
called  himself  Zarathustra's  shadow.  "Remain  with  us; 
otherwise  we  might  be  attacked  again  by  the  old 
gloomy  affliction. 

That  wizard  hath  already  shown  us  something  of 
his  worst,  and,  behold,  the  good  pious  pope  there 
hath  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  hath  again  set  full  sail  for 
the  sea  of  melancholy. 

These  things  there,  it  is  true,  will  in  our  presence 
still  display  good  humour,  which  they  have  learnt 
to-day  better  than  any  of  us  !  But  if  they  had  no 
witness,  I  wager,  with  them  also  the  evil  game  would 
begin  anew. 

The  evil  game  of  wandering  clouds,  of  damp 
melancholy,  of  veiled  heavens,  of  stolen  suns,  of  howl- 
ing autumn-storms  ; 

The  evil  game  of  our  howling  and  crying  for  help ! 
Stay  with  us,  O  Zarathustra  !  Here  is  much  hidden 


misery  that  will  speak,  much  evening,  much  cloud, 
much  damp  air  ! 

Thou  hast  nourished  us  with  strong  men's  food 
and  powerful  sayings.  Do  not  let  us  at  dessert  be 
attacked  again  by  tender,  effeminate  spirits  ! 

Thou  alone  makest  the  air  round  thee  strong  and 
clear  !  Have  I  ever  found  on  earth  air  so  good  as 
with  thee,  in  thy  cave  ? 

Many  different  lands  have  I  seen,  my  nose  hath 
learnt  to  examine  and  estimate  many  kinds  of  air ; 
but  with  thee  my  nostrils  taste  their  highest  de- 
light ! 

Unless  it  be, — unless  it  be — oh,  forgive  an  old 
reminiscence  !  Forgive  me  an  old  desert  song  I  once 
composed  among  daughters  of  the  desert. 

For  with  them  there  was  the  same  good  bright 
oriental  air  !  There  was  I  furthest  from  cloudy,  damp, 
melancholy  Old-Europe  ! 

Then  I  loved  oriental  girls  of  that  tribe,  and  other 
blue  kingdoms  of  heaven,  over  which  hung  no  clouds 
and  no  thoughts. 

Ye  will  not  believe  how  prettily  they  sat  there, 
when  they  did  not  dance ;  deep,  but  without  thoughts ; 
like  little  secrets  ;  like  riddles  with  ribbons ;  like  nuts 
at  dessert ; 

Many-coloured  and  strange,  verily !  but  without 
clouds ;  riddles  that  can  be  read.  To  please  such 
girls  I  then  invented  my  desert  psalm." 


Thus  spake  the  wanderer  who  called  himself  Zara- 
thustra's  shadow.  And  before  anybody  could  answer 
him,  he  had  seized  the  old  wizard's  harp,  crossed 
his  legs,  and  looked  round,  worthy  arid  wise.  And 
with  his  nostrils  he  slowly  and  questioningly  drew  in 
the  air,  like  one  who  tasteth  new  air  in  new  countries. 
Then  he  began  to  sing  with  a  kind  of  roar. 

"  The  desert  groweth.     Woe  unto  him  'who  contain- 
eth  deserts  ! 


Solemn  ! 

A  worthy  beginning  ! 

In  African  solemnity  ! 

Worthy  of  a  lion, 

Or  of  a  moral  howling  monkey, 

But  nothing  for  you, 

Ye  sweetest  girl-friends, 

At  the  feet  of  whom 

I  am  permitted  to  sit, 

An  European  under  palm-trees.     Selah  ! 

Wonderful,  verily  ! 

There  sit  I  now 

Nigh  unto  the  desert,  and  already 

So  far  away  from  the  desert, 


Not  yet  ruined  in  anything. 

For  I  am  swallowed  down 

By  this  smallest  oasis. 

It  hath  just  opened  yawning 

Its  sweet  mouth, 

The  best  smelling  of  all  little  mouths. 

Then  I  fell  into  it, 

Down,  through  it,  among  you, 

Ye  sweetest  girl-friends  !   Selah  ! 

Hail !  hail !  unto  that  whale, 

If  it  made  life  for  its  guest 

So  pleasant !  (Ye  understand 

My  learned  allusion  ?) 

Hail  unto  its  belly, 

If  it  was  thus 

A  sweet  belly  of  an  oasis, 

Like  this  one  !  (which  I  doubt  however). 

The  reason  is  :  I  come  from  Europe, 

Which  is  more  sceptical  than  any  little  wife. 

May  God  mend  things  ! 

Amen  ! 

There  sit  I  now, 

In  this  smallest  oasis, 

Like  a  date, 

Brown,  sweetened  through,  suppurative  with  gold, 

Desirous  for  the  round  mouth  of  a  girl, 

But  still  more  for  girl-like, 


Ice-cold,  snow-white,  cutting, 
Biting  teeth.     For  after  these  pine 
The  hearts  of  all  hot  dates.     Selah  ! 

Like,  all-too-like, 

Unto  the  southern  fruits  mentioned, 

Here  I  lie. 

Round  about  dance  and  play 

Little  winged  beetles, 

And  in  the  same  way  still  smaller, 

Still  more  foolish  and  wicked 

Wishes  and  fancies. 

Round  about  lie  ye, 

Ye  mute,  ye  prophetic 


Dudu  and  Suleika. 

Ye  sphinx  round  me  (to  stuff 

Into  one  word  many  feelings. 

May  God  forgive  me 

This  sin  against  grammar  !) 

Here  sit  I  smelling  the  best  air, 

Verily,  the  air  of  paradise, 

Bright,  light  air  with  golden  stripes, 

As  good  air  as  ever  fell  down 

From  the  moon, 

Be  it  by  chance, — 

Or  befell  it  by  wantonness, 

As  the  old  poets  tell  the  tale  ? 


But  I,  a  doubter,  doubt  it. 

The  reason  is  :  I  come 

From  Europe 

Which  is  more  sceptical  than  any  little  wife. 

May  God  mend  things  ! 

Amen  ! 

Breathing  this  finest  air, 
My  nostrils  expanded  like  cups, 
Without  a  future,  without  memories, 
Here  sit  I,  ye 
Sweetest  girl-friends, 
And  look  at  this  palm-tree, 
How  it,  like  a  dancer, 

Boweth  and  bendeth  and  swingeth  its  hips 
(One  doth  the  same,  if  one  look  at  it  too  long), 
Like  a  dancer  who  (it  would  seem  unto  me), 
Too  long  already,  dangerously  long, 
Had  always,  always  stood  on  one  little  leg  ! 
Then  so  doing  she  forgot  (it  would  seem  unto  me) 
The  other  little  leg  ! 
At  least  in  vain 
Sought  I  the  missing 

—To  wit,  the  other  little  leg — 
In  the  holy  nearness 
Of  her  very  sweetest,  very  neatest 
Little  skirt  with  its  fanning,  fluttering,  and  shining. 


Yea,  if  ye  .will  believe  me  wholly, 

Ye  beautiful  girl-friends  : 

She  hath  lost  it ! 

Hu  !  Hu  !  Hu  !  Hu  !  Hu  ! 

It  is  gone, 

Gone  for  ever, 

The  other  little  leg  ! 

Oh,  what  a  pity  for  this   other  sweet  little  leg  ! 

Where  doth  it  dwell  and  mourn  forsaken, 

This  lonely  little  leg  ? 

Perhaps  in  fear  of  a  ferocious, 

Yellow,  fair-haired,  curly, 

Lion-monster  ?  Or  perhaps  even 

Gnawed  at  and  nibbled  at — 

Miserable,  alas  !  alas  !    Nibbled  at !    Selah  ! 

Oh,  weep  not, 

Soft  hearts  ! 

Weep  not,  ye 

Date-hearts  !     Milk-bosoms  ! 

Ye  little  licorice-heart's 

Purses  ! 

Be  a  man,  Suleika  !     Courage,  courage  ! 

Weep  no  more, 

Pale  Dudu  ! 

Or  might  peradventure 

Something  strengthening,  heart-strengthening 

Be  in  the  right  place  ? 


Some  anointed  saying  ? 
Some  solemn  persuasion  ? 


Up,  dignity  ! 

Blow,  blow  again, 

Bellows  of  virtue  ! 


Brawl  once  more, 

Brawl  morally, 

Brawl  as  a  moral  lion  in  the  presence  of  daughters 

of  the  desert ! 
For  virtue-brawling, 
Ye  sweetest  girls, 
Is  more  than  all  else 
European  fervency,  European  voracity  ! 
And  there  I  stand  already, 
As  an  European, 

I  cannot  do  differently.     So  help  me  God  ! 
Amen  ! 

The  desert  groweth.    Woe  unto  him  who  containeth 
deserts  !  " 


After  the  song  of  the  wanderer  and  shadow  the 
cave  became  all  at  once  full  of  noise  and  laughter, 
and  the  guests  assembled  speaking  all  at  the  same 
time,  and  the  ass  in  the  face  of  such  an  encourage- 
ment no  longer  remaining  silent,  Zarathustra  was 
seized  by  some  displeasure  and  ridicule  of  his  visitors, 
although  he  rejoiced  in  their  gaiety.  For  it  seemed 
unto  him  to  be  a  token  of  convalescence.  Thus  he 
stole  out  into  the  open  air  and  spake  unto  his  animals. 

"  Whither  now  hath  their  trouble  gone  ?  "  said  he, 
and  immediately  he  breathed  again  after  his  little 
displeasure.  "  In  my  dwelling,  methinketh,  they  have 
unlearnt  to  cry  for  help  ! 

Although,  I  grieve  to  say,  not  yet  to  cry  alto- 
gether." And  Zarathustra  shut  his  ears  with  his  hands, 
for  just  then  the  Hee-haw  of  the  donkey  mixed  strangely 
with  the  joyous  noise  of  these  higher  men. 

"  They  are  gay,"  he  began  again,  "  and  who  know- 
eth  ?  perhaps  at  the  expense  of  their  host.  And  if 


they  have  learnt  from  me  how  to  laugh,  it  is  not  yet 
my  laughter  they  have  learnt. 

But  what  matter  !  They  are  old  folk.  They  recover 
in  their  way,  they  laugh  in  their  way.  Mine  ears  have 
before  suffered  worse  things  and  have  not  been 

This  day  is  a  victory.  He  yieldeth,  he  flieth,  the 
spirit  of  gravity,  mine  old  archfiend !  How  well 
is  this  day  going  unto  an  end,  which  began  so  ill  and 
heavily ! 

And  it  is  going  unto  an  end.  Already  the  evening 
cometh.  It  rideth  over  the  sea  unto  us,  the  good 
rider  !  How  he  swingeth,  the  blessed  one,  the  return- 
ing one,  in  his  purple  saddles  ! 

The  sky  looketh  bright  on  it,  the  world  lieth  deep. 
O  all  ye  strange  ones  who  came  unto  me,  it  is  well 
worth  while  to  live  with  me  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  And  then  again  the  crying 
and  laughter  of  the  higher  men  came  from  the  cave. 
Then  he  began  anew. 

"  They  bite  at  it.  My  bait  hath  its  effect.  From  them 
also  parteth  their  enemy,  the  spirit  of  gravity.  Already 
they  learn  to  laugh  at  themselves.  Hear  I  aright  ? 

My  men's  food  hath  its  effect,  my  saying  of  power 
and  vigour  !  And,  verily,  I  fed  them  not  with  flatulent 
vegetables  !  But  with  warriors'  food,  with  conquerors' 
food.  New  desires  I  awakened. 


New  hopes  are  in  their  arms  and  legs.  Their  heart 
stretcheth  itself  out.  They  find  new  words,  soon  will 
their  spirit  breathe  wantonness. 

Such  a  food  may,  it  is  true,  not  be  for  children, 
nor  for  longing  little  women,  old  and  young.  Their 
intestines  are  persuaded  differently.  I  am  not  their 
physician  and  teacher. 

The  loathing  leaveth  these  higher  men.  Up  !  That 
is  my  victory.  In  my  kingdom  they  grow  secure.  All 
stupid  shame  fleeth  away.  They  pour  themselves  out. 

They  pour  out  their  heart.  Good  hours  return  unto 
them.  They  cease  from  labour  and  ruminate.  They 
grow  thankful. 

This  I  take  as  the  best  sign  :  they  grow  thankful. 
Ere  long,  they  will  invent  festivals  and  put  up  stones 
in  memoriam  of  their  old  enjoyments. 

They  are  convalescent  !  "  Thus  spake  Zarathustra 
gaily  unto  his  heart  and  gazed  out.  But  his  animals 
thronged  round  him,  and  honoured  his  happiness  and 
his  silence. 


But  suddenly  Zarathustra's  ear  was  terrified.  For 
the  cave,  which  had  hitherto  been  full  of  noise  and 
laughter,  became  all  at  once  as  still  as  death.  And 
his  nose  smelt  the  sweet-scenting  smoke  and  frank- 
incense, as  if  it  sprang  from  burning  pine-cones. 

"  What  happeneth  ?  What  do  they  ?  "  he  asked  him- 
self and  stole  unto  the  entrance  in  order  to  be  able 


to  look  at  his  guests,  unobserved.     But  wonder  over 
wonder !  What  had  he  then  to  look  at  with  his  own  eyes ! 

"Ah1  of  them  have  become  pious  again,  they  pray, 
they  are  insane  ! "  he  said  and  was  extremely  astonished. 
And,  verily,  all  these  higher  men,  the  two  kings,  the 
pope  off  duty,  the  evil  wizard,  the  voluntary  beggar, 
the  wanderer  and  shadow,  the  old  fortune-teller,  the 
conscientious  one  of  the  spirit,  and  the  ugliest  man — 
they  were  all,  like  children  and  faithful  old  women, 
down  on  their  knees  adoring  the  ass.  And  that  very 
moment  the  ugliest  man  began  to  gargle  and  snort,  as 
if  something  unutterable  was  about  to  come  forth  from 
him.  But  when  he  had  actually  reached  the  point  of 
speaking,  behold,  it  was  a  pious,  strange  litany  in 
praise  of  the  adored  and  incense-sprinkled  ass.  And 
this  litany  sounded  thus  : 

"Amen  !  And  praise  and  honour  and  wisdom  and 
thanks  and  glory  and  strength  be  given  unto  our 
God,  from  everlasting  unto  everlasting  ! " 

But  the  ass  cried  Hee-haw. 

"He  carrieth  our  burden,  he  hath  taken  the  form 
of  a  slave,  he  is  patient  in  his  heart,  and  never  saith 
Nay.  And  he  who  loveth  his  God,  chastiseth  him." 

But  the  ass  cried  Hee-haw  ! 

"  He  speaketh  not,  unless  it  be  that  he  for  ever 
saith  Yea  unto  the  world  he  created.  Thus  he  prais- 
eth  his  world.  His  policy  it  is  not  to  speak.  Thus 
he  is  rarely  declared  to  be  wrong." 



But  the  ass  cried  Hee-haw  ! 

"Without  splendour  he  goeth  through  the  world. 
Gray  is  the  colour  of  his  body,  in  which  he  wrappeth 
his  virtue.  If  he  hath  spirit,  he  hideth  it.  But  every- 
one believeth  in  his  long  ears." 

But  the  ass  cried  Hee-haw  ! 

"What  hidden  wisdom  is  in  his  wearing  long  ears 
and  ever  saying  only  Hee-haw  and  never  Nay ! 
Hath  he  not  created  the  world  after  his  own  image, 
i,  e.,  as  stupid  as  possible  ? " 

But  the  ass  cried  Hee-haw  ! 

"  Thou  goest  straight  and  crooked  ways.  It  concern- 
eth  thee  little  what  exactly  appeareth  straight  or 
crooked  unto  us  men.  Beyond  good  and  evil  is  thy 
kingdom.  It  is  thine  innocence  not  to  know  what 
innocence  is." 

But  the  ass  cried  Hee-haw  ! 

"  Behold,  how  thou  pushest  away  none  from  thee, 
neither  beggars  nor  kings.  The  little  children  thou 
lettest  come  unto  thee,  and  when  the  bad  boys  allure 
thee,  thou  simply  sayest  Hee-haw." 

But  the  ass  cried  Hee-haw  ! 

"Thou  lovest  she-asses  and  fresh  figs,  thou  art  no 
despiser  of  food.  A  thistle  tickleth  thy  heart,  when 
thou  chancest  to  be  hungry.  Therein  lieth  a  God's 

But  the  ass  cried  Hee-haw  ! 


At  this  point  of  the  litany,  Zarathustra  could  no 
longer  master  himself.  He  himself  cried  Hee-haw  still 
louder  than  the  ass,  and  leaped  into  the  midst  of  his 
guests  who  had  gone  mad.  "  What  do  ye  here,  ye 
children  of  men  ? "  he  called,  tearing  up  from  the 
ground  the  praying  ones.  "Alas,  if  anybody  else 
should  look  at  you  save  Zarathustra  ! 

Everyone  would  judge  that,  with  your  new  belief, 
ye  were  the  worst  blasphemers  or  the  most  foolish  of 
all  little  old  women  ! 

And  thou  thyself,  thou  old  pope,  how  agreeth  it 
with  thee  thus  to  adore  an  ass  as  God  ? " 

"  O  Zarathustra  "  answered  the  pope,  "  forgive  me  ! 
But  in  matters  of  God  I  am  more  enlightened  than 
thou.  And  it  is  right  it  should  be  thus. 

Rather  adore  God  in  this  shape  than  in  no  shape  ! 
Meditate  over  this  saying,  my  lofty  friend !  Thou  findest 
out  quickly  :  there  is  wisdom  in  such  a  saying. 

He  who  said  :  '  God  is  a  spirit,'  hath  hitherto  made 
the  greatest  step  and  leap  unto  unbelief  on  earth.  It 



is  not  easy  to  make  on  earth  amends  for  such  a 
word  ! 

Mine  old  heart  leapeth  and  hoppeth  because  there 
is  still  something  to  be  adored  on  earth.  Forgive  that, 
O  Zarathustra,  unto  the  old  pious  heart  of  a  pope  ! " 

"And  thou,"  said  Zarathustra  unto  the  wanderer 
and  shadow,  "thou  callest  and  thinkest  thyself  a  free 
spirit  ?  And  thou  dost  here  such  idolatry  and  service 
of  priests  ? 

Worse,  verily,  thou  dost  here  than  with  thine  evil 
brown  girls,  thou  evil  new  believer  ! " 

"  It  is  bad  enough,"  answered  the  wanderer  and 
shadow,  "  thou  art  right.  But  how  is  it  my  fault  ?  The 
old  God  liveth  again,  O  Zarathustra,  thou  mayest  say 
whatever  thou  likest. 

All  this  is  the  fault  of  the  ugliest  man.  He  hath 
awakened  him  again.  And  if  he  saith  that  he  hath 
slain  him, — with  gods  death  is  always  only  a  prejudice." 

"And  thou,"  said  Zarathustra,  "  thou  evil  old  wizard, 
what  didst  thou  ?  Who  shall,  in  this  time  of  freedom, 
believe  any  more  in  thee,  if  thou  believest  in  such 
god-doltishnesses  ? 

It  was  a  stupidity  thou  didst.  How  couldst  thou, 
thou  prudent  one,  do  such  a  stupidity  ! " 

"  O  Zarathustra,"  answered  the  prudent  wizard,  "  thou 
art  right,  it  was  a  stupidity.  Besides,  it  hath  been 
hard  enough  upon  me." 

"And  even  thou,"  said   Zarathustra   unto  the   con- 


scientious  one  of  the  spirit,  "  meditate  and  put  thy  finger 
unto  thy  nose  !  Doth  nothing  here  go  contrary  unto 
thy  conscience  ?  Is  thy  spirit  not  too  cleanly  for  this 
praying  and  the  smell  of  these  bigots  ? " 

"There  is  something  in  that,"  answered  the  con- 
scientious one,  putting  his  finger  unto  his  nose,  "there 
is  something  in  this  spectacle  that  gratifieth  even  my 

Perhaps  I  may  not  be  allowed  to  believe  in  God. 
But  certain  it  is  that  in  this  shape  God  seemeth  unto 
me  to  be  the  most  credible  of  all. 

God  is  said  to  be  eternal  according  unto  the  testi- 
mony of  the  most  pious.  He  who  hath  much  time, 
taketh  his  time.  As  slow  and  as  stupid  as  possible. 
Thereby  such  an  one  can  nevertheless  go  very  far. 

And  he  who  hath  too  much  of  the  spirit  might 
well  be  infatuated  with  stupidity  and  folly.  Meditate 
on  thyself,  O  Zarathustra  ! 

Thyself,  verily  !  even  thou  mightest  become  an  ass 
out  of  abundance  and  wisdom. 

Doth  not  a  perfect  wise  man  prefer  to  walk  by 
the  most  crooked  roads  ?  Appearances  teach  thus,  O 
Zarathustra, — thine  appearances  ! " 

"And  last  of  all  thou,"  said  Zarathustra,  turning 
towards  the  ugliest  man,  who  still  lay  on  the  ground 
raising  his  arm  unto  the  ass  (for  he  gave  it  wine  to 
drink).  "Say,  thou  unutterable  one,  what  didst  thou 
there  ! 


Thou  seemest  unto  me  to  be  changed  ;  thine  eye 
gloweth  ;  the  mantle  of  what  is  sublime  lieth  round 
thine  ugliness.  What  didst  thou  ? 

Is  it  really  true,  what  these  say,  that  thou  awaken- 
edst  Him  again  ?  And  wherefore  ?  Was  he  not  slain 
and  put  aside  with  good  reason  ? 

Thou  thyself  seemest  unto  me  to  be  awakened. 
What  didst  thou  ?  What  didst  thou  turn  round  ?  Why 
wert  thou  converted  ?  Say,  thou  unutterable  one  ! " 

"  O  Zarathustra,"  answered  the  ugliest  man,  "  thou 
art  a  villain  ! 

Whether  He  is  still  alive,  or  liveth  again,  or  is 
thoroughly  dead,  which  of  us  two  knoweth  that  best  ? 
I  ask  thee. 

But  one  thing  I  know.  From  thyself  I  once  learned 
it,  O  Zarathustra.  He  who  wanteth  to  kill  most  tho- 
roughly, laugheth. 

'Not  through  wrath,  but  through  laughter  one 
slayeth '  thus  saidst  thou  once.  O  Zarathustra,  thou 
hidden  one,  thou  destroyer  without  wrath,  thou  danger- 
ous saint,  thou  art  a  villain  ! " 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  Zarathustra,  astonished 
at  such  mere  villains'  answers,  leaped  back  unto  the 
door  of  his  cave  and,  turning  towards  all  his  guests, 
cried  with  a  strong  voice  : 


"  O  ye  buffoons  assembled,  O  ye  clowns  !  Why 
do  ye  dissemble  and  hide  in  my  presence  ? 

How  the  hearts  of  all  of  you  bounded  with  delight 
and  wickedness,  because  ye  at  last  became  once  more 
like  the  little  children,  i.  e.,  pious, — 

That  at  last  ye  did  again  as  children  do,  i.  e.,  prayed, 
folded  your  hands,  and  said  '  dear  God  ! ' 

But  now  leave  unto  me  this  nursery,  mine  own 
cave,  where  to-day  all  childishness  is  at  home.  Cool 
down  here  outside  your  hot  children's  wantoning  and 
noise  of  hearts  ! 

True,  if  ye  become  not  like  the  little  children,  ye 
will  not  go  into  that  kingdom  of  heaven."  (And  Zara- 
thustra  pointed  upwards  with  his  hands.) 

"But  we  do  not  want  to  go  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  !  We  have  become  men.  Thus  we  will  the 
kingdom  of  earth." 


And  once  more  began  Zarathustra  to  speak.  "  O 
my  new  friends,"  said  he,  "ye  strange  ones,  ye  higher 
men,  how  well  am  I  pleased  by  you, — 

Since  ye  have  become  gay  again !  Verily,  ye 
all  have  begun  to  blossom.  Methinketh,  for  such 
flowers  as  ye  are,  new  festivals  are  required, — 

Some  little  downright  nonsense,  some  God-service 
and  ass-festival,  some  old  gay  Zarathustra  fool,  a 
whirlwind  that  fanneth  your  souls  into  brightness. 


Forget  not  this  night  and  this  ass-festival,  ye 
higher  men  !  That  was  invented  by  you  in  my  home ; 
that  is  taken  by  me  as  a  good  omen.  Such  things 
are  invented  solely  by  convalescent  ones  ! 

And  if  ye  celebrate  it  again,  this  ass-festival,  do 
it  for  the  sake  of  your  own  love,  do  it  also  for  the 
sake  of  my  love  !  And  unto  my  memory  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra. 


In  the  meantime  one  after  the  other  had  stepped 
out  into  the  open  air  and  into  the  cool,  thoughtful 
night.  Zarathustra  himself  led  the  ugliest  man  by 
the  hand,  in  order  to  show  him  his  night-world  and 
the  great  round  moon  and  the  silvery  waterfalls  nigh 
unto  his  cave.  There  at  last  they  stood  silently  together, 
all  old  men,  but  with  comforted,  brave  hearts,  and 
astonished  at  themselves,  because  they  felt  so  well 
on  earth.  But  the  secrecy  of  night  came  nigher  and 
nigher  unto  their  hearts.  And  once  more  Zarathustra 
thought  in  his  mind :  "  Oh,  how  well  am  I  now 
pleased  with  them,  these  higher  men  ! "  But  he  did 
not  say  it  aloud,  for  he  honoured  their  happiness  and 
their  silence. 

Then  a  thing  came  to  pass,  the  most  astonishing 
of  that  astonishing  long  day.  The  ugliest  man  began 
once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  to  gargle  and  snort. 
And  when  he  had  found  words,  behold,  a  question 
sprang  round  and  clean  from  his  mouth,  a  good, 


deep,  clear  question,  which  moved  the  heart  in  the 
body  of  all  who  listened. 

"  Mine  assembled  friends,"  said  the  ugliest  man,  "  what 
think  ye  ?  For  the  sake  of  this  day,  /  am  for  the 
first  time  content  to  have  lived  the  whole  of  life. 

And  to  bear  witness  for  so  much  is  not  yet  enough 
for  me.  It  is  worth  while  to  live  on  earth.  One  day, 
one  festival  with  Zarathustra,  taught  me  to  love  earth. 

'  Hath  that  been  life  ? '  I  shall  say  unto  death. 
'  Up  !  Once  more  ! ' 

My  friends,  what  think  ye  ?  Will  ye  not,  like  me, 
say  unto  death :  '  Hath  that  been  life  ?  For  Zara- 
thustra's  sake,  up  !  Once  more ! ' ' 

Thus  spake  the  ugliest  man.  But  it  was  not  far 
from  midnight.  And  what  think  ye  then  befell  ?  As 
soon  as  the  higher  men  had  heard  his  question,  all  at 
once  they  became  conscious  of  their  change  and  con- 
valescence and  who  occasioned  them.  Then  they  leaped 
towards  Zarathustra,  thanking,  revering,  fondling,  kiss- 
ing his  hands,  each  in  his  own  peculiar  way,  so  that 
some  laughed  and  some  cried.  But  the  old  wizard 
danced  with  pleasure.  And  though  he  then,  as  some 
tale-tellers  think,  was  full  of  sweet  wine,  he  was  cer- 
tainly still  fuller  of  sweet  life  and  had  renounced  all 
weariness.  There  are  even  such  as  tell  that  then  even 
the  ass  danced.  For  not  in  vain  had  the  ugliest  man 
(it  is  said)  given  it  wine  to  drink  before.  This  may 
be  so,  or  it  may  be  otherwise.  And  if  in  truth  the  ass 


did  not  dance  that  night,  greater  and  stranger  wonders 
happened,  than  the  dancing  of  an  ass  would  have 
been.  In  short,  as  Zarathustra's  saying  goeth,  "What 
matter  ! " 

When  this  came  to  pass  with  the  ugliest  man, 
Zarathustra  stood  there  like  one  drunken.  His  look  was 
dimmed,  his  tongue  stammered,  his  feet  staggered. 
And  who  could  guess  what  thoughts  then  passed 
over  Zarathustra's  soul  ?  But  his  spirit  apparently 
retreated  and  fled  before  him,  and  was  in  far  distances, 
and,  as  it  were,  "walking  like  a  heavy  cloud  on  a 
high  ridge,"  as  it  is  written, 

"  Between  two  seas,  between  what  is  past  and 
what  is  to  come."  But  by  and  by,  while  the  higher 
men  held  him  in  their  arms,  he  came  back  somewhat 
unto  himself,  and  with  his  hands  hindered  the  throng 
of  the  revering  and  anxious  ones.  But  he  spake  not. 
All  at  once  he  swiftly  turned  his  head,  for  he  seemed 
to  hear  something.  Then  he  laid  his  finger  on  his 
mouth  and  said  :  "  Come  /  " 

And  immediately  it  grew  still  and  homelike  round 
about.  But  from  the  depth  there  rose  slowly  the 
sound  of  a  bell.  Zarathustra  listened  unto  it,  like  the 
higher  men.  But  then,  for  a  second  time,  he  laid  his 
finger  on  his  mouth  and  said  again  :  "  Come  /  come  ! 
It  is  nigh  unto  midnight!  "  And  his  voice  had  changed. 


But  not  yet  did.  he  move  from  the  spot.  Then  it 
grew  still  quieter  and  more  homelike,  and  everything 
hearkened,  including  the  ass  and  Zarathustra's  animals 
of  honour,  the  eagle  and  the  serpent ;  and  likewise 
Zarathustra's  cave,  and  the  great  cool  moon,  and  the 
night  itself.  But  Zarathustra,  for  a  third  time,  laid  his 
hand  on  his  mouth  and  said  : 

"  Come  !  Come  !  Come  !  Let  us  walk  now  !  It  is 
the  hour  !  Let  us  walk  into  the  night ! 


Ye  higher  men,  it  is  nigh  unto  midnight.  Now  I 
will  say  something  into  your  ears,  as  that  old  bell 
telleth  it  into  mine  ; 

As  familiarly,  as  terribly,  as  heartily,  as  speaketh 
unto  me  that  midnight-bell  which  hath  seen  more 
than  any  man  ; 

Which  hath  long  ago  counted  the  pulses  of  your 
fathers'  heart-beat,  and  pain.  Alas !  alas  !  how  it  sigh- 
eth  !  how  it  laugheth  in  dream  !  the  old,  deep,  deep 
midnight ! 

Hush  !  Hush  !  Then  many  things  are  heard  which 
are  not  permitted  to  become  audible  in  day  time. 
But  now,  in  the  cool  air,  after  even  all  noise  of  your 
hearts  hath  been  stilled  ; 

Now  they  speak,  now  they  are  heard,  now  they 
steal  into  night-like  over-wakeful  souls.  Alas  !  alas  ! 
how  midnight  sigheth,  how  it  laugheth  in  dream  ! 


Hearest  thou  not,  how  it  familiarly,  terribly,  heart- 
ily speaketh  unto  thee — old,  deep,  deep  midnight  ? 

0  man,  lose  not  sight ! 


Woe  unto  me  !  Whither  is  time  gone  ?  Sank  I 
not  into  deep  wells  ?  The  world  sleepeth. 

Alas  !  alas  !  The  dog  howleth,  the  moon  shineth. 
Rather  will  I  die,  die  than  tell  you  what  my  midnight- 
heart  thinketh  this  moment. 

Now  I  have  died.  It  is  gone.  Spider,  why  spinnest 
thou  round  me  ?  Wouldst  thou  have  blood  ?  Alas  ! 
alas  !  The  dew  falleth,  the  hour  cometh  ! 

The  hour  when  I  feel  cool  and  cold,  which  asketh 
and  asketh  and  asketh  :  '  Who  hath  courage  enough  ? 

Who  shall  be  the  master  of  earth  ?  Who  will 
say :  "  Thus  shall  ye  flow,  ye  great  and  small  streams  ! " 

The  hour  approacheth  !  O  man,  thou  higher  man, 
lose  not  sight !  This  speech  is  for  fine  ears,  for  thine 
ears.  What  saith  the  deep  midnight  f 


1  am  carried  away.     My  soul   danceth.     Work   of 
the   day !      Work   of  the   day !     Who   shall    be    the 
master  of  earth  ? 

The  moon  is  cool,  the  wind  is  silent.  Alas  !  alas  ! 
Have  ye  hitherto  flown  high  enough  ?  Ye  danced.  But 
ye  see,  a  leg  is  not  a  wing. 


Ye  good  dancers,  now  all  lust  is  gone.  Wine  be- 
came lees,  every  cup  became  mellow,  the  graves 

Ye  have  not  flown  high  enough.  Now  the  graves 
stammer :  '  Redeem  the  dead  !  Why  is  it  night  so 
long  ?  Doth  the  moon  not  make  us  drunken  ? ' 

Ye  higher  men,  redeem  the  graves,  awaken  the 
corpses  !  Alas  !  Why  diggeth  the  worm  ?  The  hour 
approacheth,  approacheth. 

The  bell  hummeth,  even  the  heart  purreth,  even 
the  wood- worm,  the  heart- worm,  diggeth.  Alas !  alas  ! 
The  world  is  deep  ! 

Sweet  lyre  !  Sweet  lyre  !  I  love  thy  tone,  thy 
drunken  tone  of  toads  !  From  what  time,  from  what 
distance,  come  thy  tones  unto  me,  from  a  far  distance, 
from  the  ponds  of  love  ? 

Thou  old  bell,  thou  sweet  lyre  !  Every  pain  made 
a  gap  in  thy  heart,  the  pain  of  the  father,  the  pain  of 
the  fathers,  the  pain  of  the  forefathers.  Thy  speech 
hath  become  ripe; 

Ripe  as  a  golden  autumn  and  afternoon,  as  my 
hermit-heart.  Now  speakest  thou  :  '  The  world  itself 
hath  become  ripe,  the  grape  becometh  brown. 

Now  it  wanteth  to  die,  to  die  of  happiness.'  Ye 
higher  men,  do  ye  not  smell  it  ?  Secretly  an  odour 
springeth  up. 


A  smell  and  odour  of  eternity,  a  smell  blissful  as 
roses,  brown,  like  golden  wine,  an  odour  of  old 
happiness  ! 

An  odour  of  the  drunken  happiness  of  midnight- 
death,  that  singeth  :  '  The  world  is  deep,  and  deeper 
than  ever  day  thought  it  might ! ' 


Leave  me  !  Leave  me  !  I  am  too  pure  for  thee  ! 
Touch  me  not !  Hath  my  world  not  this  moment  be- 
come perfect  ? 

My  skin  is  too  pure  for  thy  hands.  Leave  me, 
thou  stupid,  doltish,  sultry  day !  Is  midnight  not 
brighter  ? 

The  purest  shall  be  the  lords  of  earth  ;  the  least 
recognised,  the  strongest,  the  midnight-souls,  which 
are  brighter  and  deeper  than  any  day. 

O  day,  thou  graspest  after  me  ?  Thou  gropest  for 
my  happiness  ?  For  thee  I  am  rich,  lonely,  a  treasure 
pit,  a  gold  chamber  ? 

O  world,  thou  wantest  me  ?  Am  I  of  the  world 
for  thee  ?  Am  I  spiritual  for  thee  ?  Am  I  divine 
for  thee  ?  But  day  and  world,  ye  are  too  bulky. 

Have  cleverer  hands  ;  grasp  for  deeper  happiness, 
for  deeper  misfortune  ;  grasp  for  any  God,  grasp  not 
for  me  ! 

My  misfortune   and  my  happiness  are   deep,   thou 


strange   day,   and  yet   I   am   no  God,   no   God's  hell. 
Deep  is  its  woe. 


God's  woe  is  deeper,  thou  strange  world  !  Grasp 
for  God's  woe,  not  for  me  !  What  am  I  ?  A  drunken 
sweet  lyre. 

A  midnight-lyre,  a  bell-toad,  understood  by  no 
one,  but  compelled  to  speak,  before  deaf  ones,  ye 
higher  men  !  For  ye  understand  me  not ! 

Gone  !  Gone  !  Oh,  youth  !  Oh,  noon  !  Oh,  after- 
noon !  Now  evening  and  night  and  midnight  have 
come.  The  dog  howleth,  the  wind. 

Is  the  wind  not  a  dog  ?  It  whimpereth,  barketh, 
howleth.  Alas  !  alas  !  How  midnight  sigheth  !  How 
it  laugheth,  how  it  rattleth  and  panteth,  midnight ! 

How  it  now  speaketh  soberly,  this  drunken  poet  ! 
Did  it  overdrink  its  drunkenness  ?  Did  it  become 
over-wakeful  ?  Doth  it  ruminate  ? 

It  ruminateth  upon  its  woe  in  dream,  the  old  deep 
midnight.  And  it  still  more  ruminateth  upon  its  de- 
light. For  delight, — if  woe  be  deep,  be  deep  already — 
Deeper  is  still  than  woe — delight. 


Thou  vine-plant !  Why  praisest  thou  me  ?  Did 
I  not  cut  thee  ?  I  am  cruel,  thou  bleedest.  What 
meaneth  thy  praise  of  my  drunken  cruelty  ? 


'Whatever  hath  become  perfect,  all  that  is  ripe, 
wanteth  to  die ! '  thou  sayest.  Be  the  vine-knife 
blessed,  blessed  !  But  all  that  is  unripe,  wanteth  to 
live  !  Alas  ! 

Saith  woe  :  '  Pass,  go  !  Away,  thou  woe  ! '  But 
everything  that  suffereth  wanteth  to  live  in  order  to 
become  ripe  and  gay  and  longing, — 

Longing  for  what  is  more  distant,  higher,  brighter. 
'I  want  heirs,'  thus  saith  everything  that  suffereth, 
'I  want  children,  I  want  not  myself.' 

But  delight  wanteth  not  heirs,  not  children.  Delight 
wanteth  itself,  wanteth  eternity,  wanteth  recurrence, 
wanteth  everything  to  be  eternally  equal  unto  itself. 

Saith  woe :  '  Break,  bleed,  heart !  Walk,  leg !  Wing, 
fly  !  Up  !  Upward  !  Pain  ! '  Up  !  Up  !  Oh,  mine  old 
heart !  Saith  woe  :  '  Pass,  go  / ' 


Ye  higher  men,  what  appeareth  unto  you  ?  Am  I 
a  prophet  ?  A  dreamer  ?  A  drunken  one  ?  An  inter- 
preter of  dreams  ?  A  midnight-bell  ? 

A  drop  of  dew  ?  A  smell  and  odour  of  eternity  ? 
Hear  ye  not  ?  Smell  ye  not  ?  This  moment  hath  my 
world  become  perfect.  Midnight  is  noon  also  ! 

Pain  is  a  delight  also  !  Curse  is  a  blessing  also. 
Night  is  a  sun  also.  Go  off !  Otherwise  ye  will  learn  : 
A  wise  man  is  a  fool  also. 

Said  ye  ever  Yea  unto  one  delight  ?  O  my 



friends,  if  ye  did,,  ye  have  also  said  Yea  unto  all  woe. 
All  things  are  chained,  knotted,  in  love. 

If  ye  ever  wanted  to  have  one  time  twice,  if  ye 
ever  said :  '  Thou  pleasest  me,  O  happiness,  O  in- 
stant, O  moment ! '  ye  wished  everything  to  come 
back  ! 

Everything  anew,  everything  eternal,  everything 
chained,  knotted,  in  love.  Oh !  thus  ye  loved  the 
world  ! 

Ye  eternal  ones,  ye  love  it  eternally  and  for  all 
time.  And  even  unto  woe  ye  say :  '  Pass,  go,  but 
return ! '  For  eternity's  sought  by  all  delight  ! 


Eternity  of  all  things  is  sought  by  all  delight. 
Honey,  lees,  drunken  midnight,  graves,  comfort  of  tears 
at  graves,  gilded  evening  red,  are  sought  by  it. 

What  is  not  sought  by  delight !  It  is  thirstier, 
heartier,  hungrier,  more  dreadful,  more  familiar  than 
all  woe.  It  seeketh  itself,  it  biteth  into  itself.  The  will 
of  the  ring  struggleth  in  it. 

It  seeketh  love ;  it  seeketh  hatred  ;  it  is  over-rich  ; 
it  giveth ;  it  throweth  away ;  it  beggeth,  that  one  may 
take  it;  it  thanketh  him  who  taketh;  it  would  fain  be 

So  rich  is  delight,  that  it  thirsteth  for  me,  for  hell, 
for  hatred,  for  shame,  for  the  cripple,  for  world,  for 
this  world  !  Oh,  ye  know  it ! 


Ye  higher  men,  for  yourselves  it  longeth,  delight, 
the  unruly,  blissful  one, — for  your  woe,  ye  ill-constituted ! 
For  failures  all  eternal  delight  longeth  ! 

For  all  delight  seeketh  itself.  Therefore  it  also 
seeketh  woe  !  Oh,  happiness  !  Oh,  pain  !  Oh,  break, 
heart !  Ye  higher  men,  learn  that  eternity  is  sought 
by  delight. 

Eternity  of  all  things  is  sought  by  delight,  eternity 
deep — by  all  delight  ! 


Have  ye  now  learnt  my  song  ?  Guessed  ye  what 
it  seeketh  ?  Up  !  Up  !  Ye  higher  men,  sing  now  my 
roundelay  ! 

Sing  now  yourselves  the  song  whose  name  is 
'  Once  more,'  whose  sense  is  '  For  all  eternity  ! '  Sing, 
ye  higher  men,  Zarathustra's  roundelay  ! 

O  man  !     Lose  not  sight  ! 

What  saith  the  deep  midnight  ? 
'  /  lay  in  sleep,  in  sleep  ; 

From  deep  dream  /  woke  to  light. 

The  world  is  deep, 

And  deeper  than  ever  day  thought  it  might. 

Deep  is  its  woe — , 

And  deeper  still  than  woe — delight. 

Saith  woe  :  '  Pass,  go  ! 

Eternity  's  sought  by  all  delight — , 

Eternity  deep — by  all  delight  !  ' 


But  the  morning  after  that  night,  Zarathustra  jumped 
up  from  his  couch,  girded  his  loins,  and  stepped  out 
of  his  cave,  glowing  and  strong,  like  a  morning  sun 
coming  from  dark  mountains. 

"  Thou  great  star "  he  said,  as  he  had  said  once, 
"thou  deep  eye  of  happiness,  what  would  be  all  thy 
happiness,  if  thou  hadst  not  those  for  whom  thou 
shinest ! 

And  if  they  would  remain  in  their  chambers, 
while  thou  art  awake  and  comest  and  givest  and 
distributest,  how  angry  would  thy  proud  shame  be 
at  that ! 

Up  !  They  sleep  still,  these  higher  men,  whilst  / 
am  awake.  They  are  not  my  proper  companions  !  Not 
for  them  wait  I  here  in  my  mountains. 

Unto  my  work  will  I  go,  unto  my  day.  But  they 
understand  not  what  are  the  signs  of  my  morning. 
My  step  is  for  them  not  a  call  that  awaketh  them 
from  sleep  ! 

They  sleep  still  in  my  cave.    Their  dream  drinketh 

THE  SIGN  485 

still  at  my  drunken  songs.  The  ear  that  hearkeneth  for 
me,  the  obeying  ear,  is  lacking  in  their  limbs." 

This  had  Zarathustra  said  unto  his  heart,  when 
the  sun  rose.  Then  he  asking  looked  upward,  for  he 
heard  above  him  the  sharp  cry  of  his  eagle.  "  Up  ! " 
he  shouted  upward,  "thus  it  pleaseth  me  and  is  due 
unto  me.  Mine  animals  are  awake,  for  I  am  awake. 

Mine  eagle  is  awake  and,  like  me,  honoureth  the  sun. 
With  an  eagle's  claws  he  graspeth  for  the  new  light. 
Ye  are  my  proper  animals.  I  love  you. 

But  my  proper  men  are  still  lacking  unto  me  ! " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra.  Then  it  came  to  pass 
that  he  heard  of  a  sudden  that  he  was  surrounded  by 
numberless  birds  that  swarmed  and  fluttered.  But  the 
whizzing  of  so  many  wings,  and  the  thronging  round 
his  head  were  so  great  that  he  shut  his  eyes.  And, 
verily,  like  a  cloud  something  fell  upon  him,  like  a 
cloud  of  arrows  discharged  over  a  new  enemy.  But, 
behold,  here  it  was  a  cloud  of  love,  and  it  hovered 
over  a  new  friend. 

"  What  happeneth  unto  me  ?  "  Zarathustra  thought 
in  his  astonished  heart,  and  slowly  sat  down  on  the 
big  stone  which  lay  beside  the  exit  of  his  cave.  But 
while  he  grasped  with  his  hands  round  himself,  and 
above  himself,  and  below  himself,  and  kept  back  the 
tender  birds,  behold,  something  still  stranger  happened 
unto  him.  He  unawares  laid  hold  of  dense  warm 


shaggy  hair.  At -the  same  time  a  roaring  was  heard 
before  him,  a  gentle,  long  roaring  of  a  lion. 

"  The  sign  cometh,"  said  Zarathustra,  and  his  heart 
changed.  And,  in  truth,  when  it  grew  light  before 
him,  there  lay  a  yellow  powerful  animal  at  his  feet, 
and  clung  with  its  head  at  his  knees,  and  would  not 
leave  him,  and  did  thus  out  of  love,  and  did  as  a  dog 
doth  when  he  findeth  his  old  master  again.  But  the 
doves  with  their  love  were  no  less  eager  than  the 
lion.  And  every  time  when  a  dove  flew  quickly 
across  the  nose  of  the  lion,  the  lion  shook  its  head 
and  wondered  and  laughed. 

Whilst  all  this  went  on,  Zarathustra  said  but  one 
thing:  " My  children  are  nigh,  my  children."  Then  he 
became  quite  mute.  But  his  heart  was  loosened,  and 
from  his  eyes  tears  dropped  and  fell  upon  his  hands. 
And  he  no  more  took  notice  of  any  thing  and  sat 
there  unmoved,  and  without  keeping  the  animals  back 
any  more.  Then  the  doves  flew  to  and  fro  and  sat 
down  on  his  shoulder,  and  fondled  his  white  hair,  and 
wearied  not  with  tenderness  and  rejoicing.  But  the 
strong  lion  always  licked  the  tears  which  fell  down 
on  Zarathustra's  hands,  and  roared  and  hummed  shyly. 
Thus  did  these  animals. 

This  all  took  a  long  time  or  a  short  time.  For, 
properly  speaking,  for  such  things  there  is  no  time  on 
earth.  But  in  the  meantime  the  higher  men  had 
awakened  in  Zarathustra's  cave  and  arranged  them- 

THE  SIGN  487 

selves  into  a  procession  in  order  to  go  to  meet  Zara- 
thustra  and  to  offer  him  their  morning  greeting.  For 
they  had  found,  when  they  awoke,  that  he  no  more 
dwelt  among  them.  But  when  they  came  unto  the 
door  of  the  cave,  and  the  sound  of  their  steps  went 
before  them,  the  lion,  terribly  startled,  turned  all  at 
once  away  from  Zarathustra,  and  leaped,  wildly  roaring, 
towards  the  cave.  But  the  higher  men,  when  they 
heard  him  roar,  all  cried  out  as  with  one  mouth,  and 
fled  back  and  vanished  in  a  moment. 

But  Zarathustra  himself,  stunned  and  strange,  rose 
from  his  seat,  looked  round,  stood  there  astonished, 
asked  his  heart,  remembered,  and  was  alone.  "What 
heard  I  ?  "  he  at  last  said  slowly.  "  What  happened  unto 
me  this  moment  ?  " 

And  immediately  his  memory  came  back,  and  with 
one  look  he  understood  all  that  had  happened  be- 
tween yesterday  and  to-day.  "Here  is  the  stone,"  he 
said,  and  stroked  his  beard.  "On  it\  sat  yester-morning. 
And  here  the  fortune-teller  stepped  unto  me  ;  and 
here  for  the  first  time  I  heard  the  cry  I  heard  this 
moment,  the  great  cry  for  help. 

O  ye  higher  men,  of  your  need  it  was  that 
yester-morning  that  old  fortune-teller  told  me  his 

Unto  your  need  he  tried  to  seduce  me  and  tempt 
me.  'O  Zarathustra,'  he  said  unto  me,  'I  come  to 
seduce  thee  unto  thy  last  sin.' 


Unto  my  last  -sin  ?  "  cried  Zarathustra,  and  angrily 
laughed  at  his  own  word.  "  What  hath  been  reserved 
for  me  as  my  last  sin  ? " 

And  once  more  Zarathustra  sank  into  himself  and 
again  sat  down  on  the  great  stone  and  meditated. 
Suddenly  he  jumped  up. 

"  Pity  !  Pity  for  the  higher  man!"  he  cried  out, 
and  his  face  turned  into  brass.  "  Up  !  That  hath  had 
its  time  ! 

My  woe  and  my  pity,  what  matter  ?  Do  I  seek 
for  happiness  ?  I  seek  for  my  work  ! 

Up  !  the  lion  hath  come.  My  children  are  nigh. 
Zarathustra  hath  ripened.  Mine  hour  hath  come  ! 

This  is  my  morning.  My  day  beginneth  !  Come  up, 
then,  come  up,  thou  great  noon  !  " 

Thus  spake  Zarathustra,  and  left  his  cave,  glowing 
and  strong,  like  a  morning  sun  which  cometh  from 
dark  mountains. 


University  of  California 

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MAY  02  2000 

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